Glimpses: A Relationship Grows
by snoopctm
Summary: Brief scenes in the developing relationship of Sister Bernadette/Shelagh and Dr. Patrick Turner. Based on my "Turnadette Tuesday" weekly image postings on Tumblr.
1. Chapter 1--Concern

_**AN: This is a series of short vignettes based on my "Turnadette Tuesday" photo postings on Tumblr. I post one (or occasionally two) images per week, examining the developing relationship between Sister Bernadette/Shelagh and Dr. Patrick Turner.**_

_**Disclaimer-I don't own Call the Midwife. This chapter contains one line of dialogue from CtM episode 1x06.**_

Sister Bernadette walked briskly down the hallway as the morning light shone through the windows at Nonnatus House. It was a bright morning, but the shadows never entirely faded in this window-lined corridor. She could still hear the faint footsteps of Dr. Turner echoing on the tiles as he headed in the opposite direction, most likely back to his surgery or out on his rounds. The doctor's brief smile lingered in her memory as she walked. She'd never noticed that crooked little half-smile of his before. It gave her a measure of comfort for some reason, considering the difficult nature of their conversation. There was no time to ponder that at this moment, though. Now, her thoughts were on her task as she headed to the telephone to make a call.

Sister Monica Joan. What were they going to do with her? The elderly sister had been declining for a few years now, but Sister Bernadette could still remember how she was before, highly skilled and trusted if not exactly in her prime. It had been only a few years after Sister Bernadette had arrived at Nonnatus, however, that Sister Monica Joan's erratic behavior had begun, and the sisters never knew what to expect from her next. They loved her dearly, but she could be trying. And now, pneumonia. Sister Bernadette was trying to be optimistic, but the doctor's words haunted her-"if they're ready to go, it takes them gently". As trying as the elderly sister could be, she hoped it wasn't Sister Monica Joan's time to go. Still, measures must be taken, and so the call must be made. Again, the doctor was right.

How fortunate they were, she thought, to have such a concerned and dedicated doctor on hand. Other doctors they had worked with over the years had ranged from gruff to good-natured, and from coolly competent to frustratingly inefficient. Still, most of them were skilled enough, but Dr. Turner was the best of them all. She was glad he was their primary GP. He was a good doctor and a good man, and his concern for Sister Monica Joan was genuine, she could tell. He had been through quite a difficult time this year, she knew, as the sisters prayed for him weekly since his wife's death. Between his busy schedule of patients and caring for his young son, Timothy, it was amazing to her that he could maintain his air of caring efficiency in the midst of what he must be going through. And he was starting to look so weary lately. Perhaps they should pray for him more often. As she approached the door to Sister Julienne's office, she made a mental note to do that.

The large, arched door was solid and sturdy, suggesting a measure of permanence. This door, like this building, had endured many years, many sisters and many visitors-and many changes, the sister thought, while the building itself stood unchanged. How many years had Sister Monica Joan called this place home? How many days would she still be here to call it such? Would the doctor's prescription of penicillin make a difference, so the days ahead of her could be years? Oh, how she hoped. She knew the sister was in the capable care of Sister Evangelina and Nurse Lee, and her task was to support them all she could, and keep things running at Nonnatus until Sister Julienne returned. The sisters would be praying for Sister Monica Joan as well, daily-as much as needed.

Sitting down at Sister Julienne's desk, the sister stopped for a moment, offering up a brief prayer for her dear sister, as well as for the doctor. God's concern was for all in need, she thought, as should her own be. Picking up the phone, she dialed the number for the Mother House and waited.


	2. Chapter 2--Warmth

**_This is based on my second "Turnadette Tuesday" image, from the CtM 2012 Christmas Special._**

The blast of warmth from the steam of the autoclave was a welcome sensation this chilly winter in Poplar. As Sister Bernadette bent her head over the machine, she appreciated the temporary respite from the chill. Nonnatus House was a sturdy building, but the brick and wood didn't keep out the drafts, especially on days like this. In the summer, with the heat permeating every corner of the building and only amplified by the insulating wool of her habit, the burden of this chore became especially difficult to bear. What a contrast that was to today, just a few days before Christmas, when this exercise had become not a chore but a blessing.

It was even more of a blessing thinking of who these instruments were for. The doctor's weariness had weighed even more on her mind lately, and now his own autoclave was out of commission, to add insult to injury. Helping him with this task was the least she could do, and she set to her work with her usual measured efficiency. She had noticed even more lately how he had seemed preoccupied. His steps had slowed. She found herself watching him on clinic days, when she had a moment to spare. He was as professional and competent as ever, but there was something else there now. A weight. An air of distraction. She had prayed for him occasionally in the past few weeks, in addition to the weekly prayers of the sisters, but lately she had been praying even more.

And then he was here, standing in the doorframe with his ubiquitous cigarette and that weary smile. She had lately begun to notice his height, and the warmth of his eyes, and his voice. Such a kind man, and brave. And here was Nurse Franklin inviting him to dinner, and his having to decline because of his son. How her heart went out to both of them then-father and son.

Timothy. She had seen him occasionally on clinic days, and tagging along after his father on various errands. He always seemed so glum, although she could also tell he was trying to be cheerful. She knew too well the loss of a parent at such a young age. She remembered that feeling, trying to be brave for her father, who used to walk so briskly but whose steps had slowed after the loss of her mother. His eyes had lost their brightness, and his voice, so quiet and precise when it had been so lively. She had made an effort to cheer him up, but it had only partially succeeded. She had tried to ease his burdens, taking on the household chores herself, keeping up her air of cheerful efficiency. An only child, she had nobody to comfort her, and she so wanted to be strong for her father. She had survived, thanks largely to the grace of God, she thought, but how she would have welcomed the support and encouragement that her father had been unable to adequately provide, lost in his own grief as he had been.

And now here was the doctor, overweighed by burdens and trying to manage, and the serious young boy waiting in the car. She hoped he could be strong. She hoped they both could be strong. She knew she had made it through all those years ago, but she had been mostly alone.

She wished so much to help these two, this man and this boy. She had heard the weariness in the doctor's words as he spoke to Trixie. A flush had arisen in her cheeks as she had bent over the autoclave, listening. Too much steam, she thought, this welcome but almost overwhelming warmth. When Trixie had left and she had lifted her eyes to his again, she was resolved. She would help him. She wasn't in a position to do much, she knew, but she would do what she could. She would perform these necessary tasks, offer encouraging words. She would include Timothy in her now daily prayers for the doctor. They had faced this crushing loss, but she would pray they would not be alone as she had been.

Trixie had returned briefly, announcing another home visit for the doctor. Another need to see to. The sister had finished the job, handed over the bag. He had smiled in response. That sincere, weary smile again. The warmth of the room was more apparent now. This was a small space, but it surprised her at how much the heat of the autoclave could envelop it. She offered her own, small smile in return, hoping he would in some way be strengthened by it.

She stayed in her place by the autoclave, watching him as he walked away, slowly but with purpose. She knew he had a job to do, and he would do it. And now she had her own job as well. She would, in her own quiet, inadequate way, be a friend to him and to his son. She would help. She would hope. She would pray.


	3. Chapter 3--Gas and Air

_**Author's Note-This is based on my third "Turnadette Tuesday" image, from the "gas and air" montage in CtM episode 2x01.**_

It was always the usual scene, with a few occasional variations. The woman on the bed, often with her mother or another woman in attendance. The midwife, skilled and confident, running the show. The father, pacing in the hall or sat in the living room with a cup of tea, a cigarette, or both-or down the street at the pub with a pint. Sometimes there were exceptions, but this was the general rule. And he, the doctor, called in only when necessary, as the midwives of Nonnatus House were usually more than capable of doing the job. Now, however, there had been a new innovation: gas and air. The machine was portable enough to carry in the boot of his car. It was heavy, but manageable. And now, he was managing it everywhere.

Racing was the order of the day for Dr. Patrick Turner. Racing around Poplar with the machine. Climbing steps, lugging the heavy equipment from house to house, flat to flat, only to return to his car, hoist the machine back into the boot, and hurry off to wherever the next midwife called him. He was pleased that so many expectant mothers had readily embraced this revolutionary new concept in pain relief, but he had to admit he was in need of some relief himself after all the running, climbing, lifting and racing. It was his job, and he was glad to do it, but some form of respite would be more than welcome. "Pain relief is available at the flick of a switch" he had told patients, and nurses, and anyone who would listen. If only it was always that easy in the rest of his life.

He didn't begrudge the effort. Who wouldn't want pain relief? A simple, effective solution to bring some temporary comfort amidst the most grueling of discomforts-this difficult, sometimes brutal travail that at least would be rewarded with a prize at the end. A slimy, bloody, wailing, mewling, much cherished little prize. He remembered holding his own son when the boy was only minutes old. Patrick had been allowed to be there by the imperious Sister Evangelina only by the happy privilege of being the attending physician. As many births as he had attended, as many screams as he had heard, it had been especially difficult to watch when it was his own wife. When it was Marianne. Still, the time came and the trial ended, only to be rewarded by the much more welcome cries of this brand new person. This person who was now 10 years old and in his own kind of pain, now motherless and left with a father who had often felt powerless in his own grief. There had been no gas and air for them. No immediate comfort. No simple solution.

It had been a year, and Patrick had managed. As best he could, he kept going, kept up that cheerful manner that he knew his patients needed. How would it help them if the doctor couldn't hold himself together? And so he had held himself together. He had gone through the motions, and he had survived. He still missed Marianne, of course, but his greater concern now was for Timothy. Patrick was a grown-up. He could be strong. But what of Timothy, motherless at such a young age and trying so desperately to prove he could manage, too.? He knew the boy needed his father, and as a doctor, Patrick's time was in high demand. Remembering a soothing, reassuring voice from a few weeks ago, he took comfort in the words: "children are more resilient than you think." He hoped those words were true. And hearing them from this kind, always encouraging source, he wanted to believe them.

The midwives and sisters had been regular fixtures in Patrick's life for years. It was the younger ones who made these calls for gas and air. Sister Julienne with her years of wisdom and much tried patience, and Sister Evangelina with her strict rules and set ways never called for gas and air, but the rest of them did. Now, daily, he would bring the machine and he would be standing by as the midwife would work. There was Nurse Lee with her cool competence, Nurse Noakes with her compassion and humor, Nurse Franklin with her determined confidence, or Nurse Miller with her quiet sensitivity. Sometimes he wished Nurse Miller could gain some more confidence in her manner, but all the midwives were skilled and he had no worries working with any of them. There was one face, though, that he was most encouraged to see. One calm, steady voice that always assured him that everything was under control. This was the voice that had comforted him those weeks ago, and it was the voice he was listening to right now, at this moment. This was Sister Bernadette.

"Now just relax, Helen. Breathe it in, " came the words in that steady, soothing tone this midwife maintained so well. Mrs. Ward was young, a first time mother barely married a year, and while physically she was strong, the prospect of childbirth had caused much anguish for her. Watching her take in the gas and seeing her settle down almost instantly, Patrick was glad that she had been attended by this gentle but highly accomplished young sister.

In his mind, Sister Bernadette was the best midwife Nonnatus had, with the possible exception of Sister Julienne. Patrick had every confidence in her abilities, and in her manner. All of the midwives were excellent, but Sister Bernadette seemed to always know what to do. She had the skill and advanced training of the other younger midwives, combined with the cool head and wisdom of the older sisters. He could always count on her to know what to do in any situation that presented itself, and even in difficult cases she could keep her head while never losing that kind, comforting presence. As well, more than the other midwives, she seemed to see him as a person rather than simply the doctor. She was always there with a gentle look or a kind word. She would ask about his day, and about Timothy. In the past few months he'd come to think of her as a trusted ally, even a friend. And now here she was at the gas and air machine, giving him that wide smile and looking at him with those big blue eyes, full of warmth and openness. Her eyes. Had he ever noticed how blue they were before? Her smile, so soothing. He couldn't help but smile back, and for a moment, there wasn't anything else to think about.

"This won't take the pain away," she had said to Mrs. Ward, "but It will take the edge off," and for one small moment, standing here with her looking up at him with those crystal blue eyes, that's how he felt. The sharp edges of pain and weariness fled for a split second, and he could suddenly imagine a life without all the drudgery, or where work was no longer drudgery but was joy again. A joy he could feel in that kind, trusting face. It was almost as if, for one second, he was in a new world.

Then suddenly he was back on Earth. He heard once again the low hiss of the gas, and the steady breathing of their patient , who he now noticed had relaxed to the point where she had been able to remove the mask. Sister Bernadette turned back to adjust the dials on the machine, and Patrick shook his head, looking down at his watch and remembering this was not his last call today. He frowned. He must be worn out, to have lost track of his thoughts like that even for a second. As Sister Bernadette rose from her chair to attend to Mrs. Ward, Patrick stepped forward to assist. Now wasn't the time for daydreams. It was time to be a doctor.


	4. Chapter 4--Faith

_**Author's Note-This is based on my week 4 "Turnadette Tuesday" image posting, from CtM episode 2x02. It contains three lines of dialogue from that episode. I don't own CtM or any of its characters.**_

Patrick wondered about the sisters sometimes. Sitting at the small desk in the Nonnatus House dispatch area, looking through the small bit of paperwork he had on the death of infant Thomas Kelly, he thought back to earlier that day. The images in his mind were vivid—of Mrs. Kelly sitting on the bed, staring blankly into space in her grief when Patrick arrived, and finally breaking down in her mother's arms as he left. Then there was Nurse Miller, obviously shaken, and Mr. Kelly, stricken but trying to hold his composure. And there was Sister Julienne, clearly affected as well but keeping her calm. In that reassuring voice of hers, she offered a blessing for the child, and all gathered around as she prayed. All had said "Amen" to her prayer, including Patrick himself, although the very concept of prayer eluded him most times.

He had witnessed prayers many times, in many forms, and had even participated on occasion. The bedtime prayers of his childhood gave way to the sporadic church services of his teen years and then the infrequent vague petition when in the midst of his studies. Then there was the war, where he encountered men of various faiths—some strong, some weak, some barely existent at all, but almost all of them prayed. He himself couldn't remember a time in his life when he had prayed more. Still, the ghastly sights he had seen, the sheer brutality had silenced his petitions. Now, as these visions swiftly came to his mind, he just as swiftly silenced them. It was no use thinking about the war. The only thing to be done was to move on, and to put his faith in what he could see. That was medicine, innovation, the science of caring.

He wasn't an atheist, exactly. Agnostic might be a better word, although at many times over his life and career he had fervently wished he could believe. As a child, he had gone to church with his parents, and a few times much later with Marianne and, occasionally, Timothy. His wife had professed a measure of faith-perhaps a remnant from her parents or perhaps not, but for the most part, she had been quiet about it. There were prayers for her in her illness—from the vicar and some of the sisters, but those prayers, like many others, had proven fruitless. He had seen faith be a comfort to so many, but for him it was inscrutable. To listen to Sister Julienne today with her words from Scripture and her tone of wise compassion, he found himself wishing he could believe, wondering what it took to have a faith like that. What would it look like? How would it feel? What comfort could it even offer in a situation like this?

The sisters were a continuing puzzle to him—so dedicated to the art and skill of healing, but also to the ways of prayer and ritual. He had worked with them for enough years to know they weren't just pious pretenders. They sincerely believed what they professed, and they lived what they believed. He admired them for their courage and compassion, although he remained perplexed at their sheer level of devotion.

And now, here he was in this dimly lit room, with shadows growing as he perused the scant report from today's event. An inquiry was a serious matter, and he wanted to make sure no details were missed. He didn't have much to look at until the results of the post-mortem were returned, but he had asked the sisters for everything they could provide. He knew the attending midwife, Nurse Miller, to be highly competent if not always confident in her own skills, and she was visibly troubled when he had seen her today. He could only hope this inquiry was efficient and would find no fault on her part. Still, he knew that line of questioning would have to be pursued.

His diversion from this line of thought arrived in the form of a familiar and welcome face, as Sister Bernadette came bearing Nurse Miller's notes. He had worked alongside her for years, as he had with the other sisters, but lately he had noticed this sister's presence more so than the others. Her usually cheerful demeanor was tempered by the gravity of the occasion, however, although her kindness was still clearly in evidence. She had brought him a cup of tea. She had invited him to dinner. As engrossed in this task as he had to be, he was forced to decline.

"Is there anything else I can get you, Dr. Turner?" Her look was gentle, but direct.

Unable to hide his confusion, he could only offer one response.

"Some of your faith, perhaps. It's at times like this I wish I had one." At this, he turned his eyes to the notes.

"It's at times like this I wish it made a difference."

What? He looked up instantly, meeting her gaze. He hadn't known what kind of response to expect to his statement, or if she would even respond at all. He would never in a million years have predicted that answer. He stared at her, as if seeing her for the first time, and she suddenly lowered her gaze and offered a flustered apology.

Who was this woman? As devoted a sister as he had ever seen, but to answer him like that? He suddenly found himself fascinated. He invited her to stay, but she declined and made a quick exit. And now he was left only to sit here, staring after her, still wondering if she had really said what she had said, and wondering about the mind, the heart that could offer that response.

This was someone he wanted to know. He thought back and remembered her comforting words at Christmas time, and her cheerful encouragement since then. Her luminous blue eyes and the comfort he found in her warm, genuine smile. Today, however, there had been no smile but still that ever-present kindness, and a kind of gravity and reflection that intrigued him. It was a turn of mind that had surprised him coming from a sister of the Order. He suddenly wanted to call her back and convince her to talk to him—to hear more about what she had said, what she believed, but even more about who she was. Though the sisters had always been somewhat of a mystery to him, it had been a mystery he wondered about but expected to leave unanswered. Sister Bernadette was something different. She had presented to him a fascinating enigma, and he wanted to know more.

He sat transfixed for a few moments, finally turning back to the notes on the desk. He couldn't be thinking this way. He shouldn't be. He was simply tired from a long day, he told himself, but the picture of that small, devoted and kind sister remained in his head. Perhaps some time he would get to talk to her again—really talk to her, but now was not that time. The notes beckoned to him from the desk, and he knew he couldn't stay here all night. Picking up the small book, he turned it in his hands as he looked back briefly toward the doorway. Shaking his head finally and blinking his eyes in the dimming light, he turned back to the desk and opened the book. That face-her face, still wouldn't leave his mind, but he had to do his best to push it away and concentrate on the notes. It was time to get studying.


	5. Chapter 5--Looking Back

**_A/N-This chapter covers moments in CtM episode 2x03, including the moment I talked about in my 5th "Turnadette Tuesday" image posting. _**

Don't stop. Don't look back. Wheel the bicycle a few yards away, then hop on and ride home. There are people everywhere on this crisp, clear morning. Every direction people are walking, driving, riding, but she only looks forward and, when necessary, to the sides. Sister Bernadette doesn't look back. Not until she's a fair distance away and she's turned into a new street where she can't see the green car anymore, or the man leaning against it. She rides alone, as Trixie had already headed back earlier this morning. Eyes on the road. Concentrate, and get home.

There had been enough looking back tonight, and looking up, and into his eyes. There had been the time she caught herself looking and quickly looked back, calling him forward to be ready for when the first baby was born. It had been a grueling night. Twins were born—the first a relatively straightforward delivery, the second anything but. Her skills had been challenged to their limit tonight, but she had maintained her cool, her quiet efficiency as she always did. Inside her head, though, it was anything but quiet. How could looking at someone confuse her so, especially when she had looked at him many times before tonight?

In fact, looking at him had become one of her favorite activities, now that she thought about it. She had helped him, prayed for him, offered encouragement in his distress. She had even sewn a button on his clinical coat that one time, because it was needed. There was no doubt she cared for him, although she had told herself she was being a friend, and all those looks were out of concern. But what now?

She can't think about it. She mustn't. She must get home. She must keep riding. Keep looking ahead. Don't look back. Don't question. Don't think. Just ride.

But she can't help but think. She keeps her eyes forward, focusing on the road, but her mind keeps traveling back. Thinking back to a few minutes ago, standing outside on the clear, chilly morning, sharing a cigarette with a tall, tousled doctor as both take a much needed break. Looking up into his face, with that broad smile, and those dark eyes, and that unruly hair of his, she had been reminded again of his height. And he had offered her the cigarette, and gazed in wonder at her as she took it. What memories that brought back, of herself as a young girl sneaking a cigarette from her father's desk. And there she had been, smoking for the first time in years, looking up into those eyes and somehow feeling fourteen again. It was a moment of letting her guard down, of sharing a story, of seeing him smile and feeling the warmth radiate through her, with no autoclave nearby to blame it on in the chilly morning air.

The autoclave. Christmas. Was that where this had all started? Perhaps, or perhaps not. There had been that day a few weeks before when she had first noticed his smile, and the weeks following when she had found herself watching him on clinic days. There were the times she made a point of saying hello to him, asking about his day. It was kindness, concern, or so she had told herself. But now, pedaling steadily back to the refuge that was Nonnatus House, she has to think that it was more than that. More than just admiration, or compassion. More than mere concern.

And then there was this morning, and the previous night. This delivery had been a marathon, and it required all her skill and energy. Calming a distraught mother, dealing with her belligerent sister, turning the baby, and finally reviving the baby had been taxing, and she was thankful for God's strength. Still, in the midst of it all was the awareness of Dr. Turner. His nearness was necessary as she helped him in all the essential tasks-lifting the patient into position, assisting with the birth, handing the child to her mother as he sat so close. Carefully making sure her arm didn't brush against his when she stood back up. Why had she even thought to do that? Why was it even something to think about?

She was unsettled, to say the least. She was grateful for the presence of others in the room, and for the urgency of the birth, or else she might have been even more distracted. But she shouldn't have been distracted at all. This was her job, and he was just the doctor. She couldn't interfere with his work any more than she could let this… uneasiness affect hers. But still, there were those moments—those looks, those tiny glances, those smiles that made her heart race. She really shouldn't be thinking this way, but she couldn't help it.

Keep riding. Stop thinking. Stop feeling. If she could just keep pedaling, keeping her eyes on her destination that was now in sight, maybe she'd be able to forget. There's the bicycle shed, right in front of her. She steers toward it and hops off of the bike. Parking it in the shed and collecting her bag, she starts up the long staircase to the front door. She moves briskly, with more energy than she thought she could muster given her exhaustion—both physical and emotional. She slows down as she ascends the staircase, taking every step by measured step and trying to keep her mind on her destination—the front door and, beyond it, the chapel.

Stepping inside and stopping off briefly to put down her bag and remove her coat, she walks the quiet, shadowy corridor to the chapel. It would most likely be empty this time of morning. She has arrived too late for morning prayer, and the other sisters will be in their rooms getting ready to start their work for the day. It's for the best, she thinks. As much as the community is invaluable to her, she needs this moment now, simply between herself and God.

The morning light beams through the stained glass windows as she approaches the flower-decorated table at the front of the chapel. Don't look back. Look forward. Look up. There is light. There is help. Or so she hopes, and prays. She offers a silent plea to the One on whom she has depended for so long, for whom she has devoted her entire life and work. She utters no words aloud, but her mind is active, and her heart is still racing.

What can be done now? She looks back toward the door. The room is empty, but her mind is full. She turns back to the window, looks up. There's no use avoiding these thoughts now. All she can do is pray.


	6. Chapter 6--Picture

_**A/N-This chapter is based on moments from CtM episode 2x04, including the images I used in my Week 6 "Turnadette Tuesday" Tumblr post.**_

It was mostly dark in the Turners' flat. The sun had gone down hours ago, the curtains were drawn and only one small lamp vaguely lit the space. It was often quiet here now, especially when Timothy was in bed or away at school or Cubs or playing outside. It was a world of silence for Patrick Turner, ever since they had lost Marianne. Even when he and his son were both home, conversations could be difficult, as Timothy had buried himself in schoolwork or drawing or piano and Patrick struggled to find avenues of conversation. But still, he would try. And being a doctor, Patrick was often called out at odd hours, sometimes having to bring Timothy along. It wasn't ideal for a young boy, but they managed as best they could.

Patrick sat alone at the small dining table, his eyes focusing on a large piece of paper that Timothy had left there before being sent to bed. For once, their conversation had not been strained, and Tim had no loss for words.

"You have to give it to her, Dad, next time you see her." The boy was bent over the paper, crayon in hand, eyes fixed on his project as he diligently worked, putting the finishing touches on his artwork. As Tim concentrated on coloring in the bright yellow sun, Patrick's attention was again called to the neatly applied bandage on the boy's elbow, and the reason for this dedicated endeavor.

Patrick had nodded, managing a small smile. "I will, Tim. Don't worry."

He had suggested a thank-you note, but his son didn't know what to write, so this was Timothy's idea. The boy hadn't stopped talking about Sister Bernadette since earlier that day, when she had patched up his scraped elbow and then sat with him until Patrick was free to walk him home. He remembered her gentle voice and kind eyes as she stood at the edge of the cubicle at clinic, having offered to walk Timothy back to school. No need, he had told her, since it was late enough in the day and school would be over soon. So she had waited with him, sitting next to him in midst of the long row of chairs. The few times Patrick had been able to look over at them he had seen her paying Timothy her full attention, listening intently as he spoke animatedly.

One time, he glanced over and saw them laughing—his son's face brightened with humor, and her blue eyes shining. And that wide, warm smile of hers again. Perhaps he shouldn't, but he'd come to appreciate that smile, and to anticipate it, hope for it.

Shaking his head, Patrick snapped back into the present, staring down at this meticulously drawn picture that his son had spent so much time perfecting. A green field, with flowers growing and the sun shining, and a small boy standing next to a smiling, bespectacled nun. Timothy had made a friend today, and Patrick was glad.

"She asked me about school," Timothy had explained earlier, with a hint of surprise in his voice. "I told her about science class, and the insects we were studying. Most girls hate insects, but not Sister Bernadette. She asked all about them!"

He reached for another crayon. "And she's funny, too, and she tells great stories! Did you know she grew up in Scotland? In the countryside, around farms and farm animals and all kinds of different insects!"

Patrick smiled. The things that impress little boys, he thought. But Timothy was right. Sister Bernadette was different, and wondrously fascinating. He wanted to talk to her, hear her stories, learn as much about her as he could. As his son continued his litany of praise to the kind young sister, Patrick found himself adding to it in his own mind: _she's bright, with a lively mind. She's compassionate, witty and energetic. She's small, and with a kind, lovely face and those big blue eyes. And when she looks at you, you feel like you're the only person in the room_. Or maybe that was just him, and apparently now Timothy.

Timothy had been through so much for such a young boy, and Patrick was often at a loss. So busy with rounds and duties as a physician, it was all too easy to leave Timothy behind. As beneficial as it would be for him to learn independence, a boy still needed his father. Patrick had already reprimanded himself for his callous manner toward Timothy this afternoon. How grateful he was to Sister Bernadette for not only taking charge of Timothy, but ignoring his own gruff attitude and encouraging him with her cheerful disposition. He had to be careful not to ascribe sainthood to the young sister, though. She may be a nun, but she was as human as he was, or so he had reminded himself. It was her humanity, though, that was increasingly the problem. Sister Bernadette wasn't just a sister—she was a woman, and an increasingly intriguing one in his eyes.

It was a good drawing. Looking at it again, more closely, he could see the evidence of the care his son had taken to produce this gift for the sister. The bright expressions on the faces of the smiling figures caught his imagination, and for a brief moment he saw them like that in life.

No. He definitely shouldn't be thinking this way. He couldn't deny now the feelings he had for Sister Bernadette, but he couldn't encourage them. She wouldn't feel the same way. She couldn't. She had devoted her life to God's service, and even if she hadn't, what would she see in him? He wasn't entirely sure of her age, but he knew he had to be much older—at least 10, or more likely 15 years older. He remembered the sister when she had first arrived in Poplar, and she had to be in her early 20s then. Young and full of hope and energy, and now a decade later, she was as vibrant as ever.

It was no use thinking this way. He had to stop. Glancing at the drawing one last time, he picked it up and carefully folded it in half. Finding his bag that he had hastily left on the sofa earlier, he placed the picture inside, taking care not to wrinkle or tear it. Sometime he would find Sister Bernadette and give it to her. Putting aside the mental image of how she would look when she received it, he closed the bag and sank down onto the couch next to it. He was grateful he hadn't been called out on an emergency tonight. What a day this had been. In spite of himself, he wondered what Sister Bernadette might be thinking about this day.

A few weeks later, a pair of glasses-clad blue eyes stared down at the picture, and a pair of small, normally steady hands started to tremble as they held it. Such a lovely picture this was, drawn by such a sweet boy, and delivered by such a dear, wonderful man. So many images came to her mind, of this lonely man and this motherless boy, and of how much both of them had come to mean to her. Such a joyful image, but one that brought much trouble as well. Sister Bernadette looked up, appealing to the silent Authority to whom she had always appealed. What in the world was she supposed to do now?


	7. Chapter 7--No Escape

**_A/N-This story covers the moments in my "Turnadette Tuesday" images for CtM 2x05, and more. I know this ends abruptly, but if you want to see my version of the aftermath of the kitchen scene, I refer you to my first ever CtM story, "The Weight" (which takes place in the first minutes of episode 2x06). You can find that story in my profile._**

Sister Bernadette couldn't help herself. She had to look. She stood in the crowd in the clear, warm summer air, watching as Timothy Turner and the rest of the Cubs sang their song, "Robin Hood". The performance was charming, but even more so was the tall, dark haired doctor standing just a few yards away, a broad grin on his face as he watched his son overcome his own embarrassment and turn in a fine performance as the leading lady. The sister resisted the urge to glance his way as strongly as she could. Trying keep her eyes on the stage, there was that face that she caught just in the corner of her eye, and she had to look.

It was always like this now, or so it seemed. Whenever he was near, she had to look. Whenever he spoke, she needed to listen. Even when he wasn't there she would think of him, and no matter how much time she spent in prayer—be it in the chapel or in her cell—his eyes, his face, the very sense of him haunted her imagination. She'd never experienced anything like this in all her life. She found it terrifying, and strangely fascinating.

She had almost told Sister Julienne. She had planned to. An unexpected interruption changed things, and Sister Julienne's words had confused her. And then there was Sister Monica Joan and her poetry. She tried to share her thoughts with Sister Julienne but try as she might, coherence eluded her. Life was confusion, and even when she prayed, she couldn't find the peace she sought. There were no answers. Nothing was clear, and her mind was full of him. Dr. Turner.

And then there was the other day. Lately, she couldn't even even look at him without wondering what it meant, and the feelings. His eyes, his stature, his smile—everything about him drew her. And there was her heart, her head-not thinking, just feeling. A discussion of needs for the clinic turns into… what? And then there's Timothy, and all is well, at least for the time being. But what had that look meant? What had he felt? What had she felt?

It was all useless, trying to escape these thoughts as she gazed over at the doctor who smiled proudly, his glorious brown eyes shining as he watched his son onstage, oblivious to the feelings that battled within her. Why must he look like that-so appealing?

And then there was Nurse Lee, and he was called away. She glanced back to the stage, and Timothy, obviously affected by this turn of events. And he was supposed to run in the three-legged race with his dad, and now he would be alone. Suddenly, an unbidden thought arose—Timothy wouldn't be alone. He was only a child. Why should he have to miss the race? There was no harm in offering to help.

How thrilled Timothy looked when she made the suggestion. "Really?" he had said.

She nodded, smiling. "Really. You think we have a chance?"

He grinned. "Let's go practice!"

"We'll try our best," she assured him, smiling. Taking his arm, she led him over to the starting line where the ribbons were being passed out. They wouldn't have time for a full practice run, but they could walk around, trying to establish a system of walking with their legs tied together. Surprisingly, it wasn't that difficult. Timothy even mentioned how much easier it was walking with her, since she was so much smaller than his father. Now they had mastered walking, they could only hope running would be as successful.

The race was a blur. It was all running, and dodging other pairs, and the shouting and cheering, and the sight of the finish line before them, and then, a familiar voice cheering, and a familiar lurch in her stomach as she realized who it was. He must have hurried back, and she was glad. He'd get to watch his son race, even if he couldn't run with him.

And then it was over, and they were both on the ground. She looked up and saw the doctor's concerned face—trying to help, as Timothy tried to get up while they were still tied together. There was an awkward fumble of hands and looks—an uncomfortable moment, even though she knew he meant well. He reached out, but then pulled back his hand and she couldn't deny her relief. He'd reached for her glasses instead, as she reached down and freed her leg from Timothy's and the boy was off like a shot to join his friends from Cubs and she was left there, face-to-face with the doctor, looking straight into those eyes. All she could do was nod, take the glasses and thank him, brushing off his concern for her injured hand that she hadn't even noticed before he pointed it out. She couldn't think straight around him, was all she knew. As politely as she could, she excused herself and fled.

And now here she is, in the Parish Hall kitchen, trying to clear her mind as she runs cold water over her hand. It's nothing serious. All it needs is cleaning and a bandage, and it should heal in no time. She stands there, keeping her hand under the water and trying to calm her racing thoughts. Why had she fled so quickly? Why couldn't she stay and talk? What was it about this man that made her senses reel so? She looks down at her hand, watching as the blood goes down the drain. She has to keep her mind on the task. Don't think of him. Don't wonder, don't feel. Don't think about whether he might possibly feel what she felt. Just wash the hand, get it fixed up. Put aside the feelings and move on.

All she can hear is her own breathing and the sound of the water from the tap, until…

"Would you like me to have a look at that?"

She almost jumps. Looking up, she sees him there. His eyes are concerned, and she can't think. She can barely speak. She tries to clear her head. Glancing down at her hand, she looks back up to face him. There's no harm in having him look at it. He is a doctor, after all.

She holds out her hand, giving her answer.

"Yes."


	8. Chapter 8--Unspoken

_**Author's Note—This chapter takes place during CtM 2x06, covering the moments discussed in my week 8 "Turnadette Tuesday" posting on Tumblr. **_

Be careful what you wish for, she'd heard someone tell her once. Although she didn't really believe her previous words had anything do with her present circumstances, Sister Bernadette found it ironic that she would tell Sister Julienne she wished she had a physical illness, so unable had she been to describe her heart's dilemma those few weeks ago. And now, here she was. Tuberculosis. At the end of a day that had been one of the most thrilling of her life, that diagnosis hit her like a punch in the stomach. She sat there, hardly able to speak or breathe, and she could only feel more pained thinking of who had given her that news—the man who would never, for any reason, wish to hurt her.

And this morning, she found herself walking down the long staircase outside Nonnatus House to join him, waiting outside his ever so familiar green car. It was not too unlike a scene of just a few weeks ago, when she also couldn't speak. The tension had been obvious then, but she had tried her best to deny it. And now, here she was again, descending the same stairs, approaching the same car. Facing the same man. As awkward as that earlier meeting had been, this was far, far worse.

She was at more than a loss for words. Suddenly, she didn't even know what to feel anymore. Here was this dear, good man standing here by his car, opening the door to let her in. Sitting in the car, trying not to look at him, she tried to think ahead, but the future just looked blank. Thinking back only brought pain, and so she sat there, trying not to think at all, and failing.

He was being kind to drive her. She knew that, and she was grateful. She still couldn't look at him, because if she was honest with herself she had to admit she knew there was more than kindness at work here. She had to look straight ahead, looking at the road, knowing where it was taking them but not knowing what else led past the doors of the London, and beyond those doors, those of the sanatorium.

She had been informed this morning that Dr. Turner had arranged a place for her at St. Anne's, which had an excellent reputation, but thinking of that was little comfort to her as she sat there, so close to him but still unable to say a word. She knew she would have to speak to him at some point. There was a lot on the schedule for today. There would be the x-rays and the tests while he waited for her, and then the drive to Woodford Green. They couldn't pass all that time in silence. Or could they?

He didn't need to help her like this, she kept telling herself, although she knew why he did. It was something neither of them spoke of, but they knew it was there. It had been there yesterday, throughout what had been one of the most exciting days in recent memory, until the evening, when everything broke. She could remember his face, and his gentle tone as he told her the news. She still didn't know what to think, even now, but yesterday it had been one devastation after another.

She was grateful for Sister Julienne's presence when he had to examine her. Sister Bernadette had stood there while he took such care, with such gentle hands, and she had been unable to face him. She had only opened the front of her habit a few buttons but she felt so utterly exposed. She waited there while he listened and she battled the twin wishes of wanting to cry in his arms and wanting to run sprinting from the room. Sister Julienne was the calming face, the one to appeal to when the young sister didn't know what to feel. She wondered if her mentor suspected anything. Trying to keep her face expressionless had been a miserable failure, but she had many reasons to be distraught. The weight she had felt of late became even more crushing, suffocating, consuming. When would it ever be lifted? Certainly not today, she thought.

He had finished the examination and she heard the concern in his voice. The deep, profound care, and she wanted to run. This couldn't be happening. Not now, and not with him so near. Why? Why must this happen now? She tried to refuse his offer to help, knowing it would be to no avail. Turning to Sister Julienne, she offered a silent appeal for help—but what kind of help? She felt so cold, and so flustered, and so helpless.

Now, after a long night of much prayer and little sleep, here she was listening to the hum of the car engine, smelling the scents of leather and lingering cigarette smoke as Dr. Turner drove, his eyes on the road. Occasionally, her eyes caught a quick turning of his head as he would glance in her direction, but still there was nothing said. Only looking, and breathing, and driving.

Again, she remembered that earlier time, a few weeks ago, preparing for the journey to County Hall. She hadn't talked much then, either, trying her best to keep her conversation strictly professional. All she could remember then was the last time she had seen him, in the Parish Hall kitchen, remembering the warmth of his presence, the look in his eyes, the tenderness of his voice, and the racing of her own heart. Once she was in the car, she couldn't speak at all, and just as today, they had driven to their destination in complete silence.

Bringing her thoughts back to the present, she cast a look down at her hands. She couldn't see the nearly-faded scar on her left palm, as her hands were tightly clasped in her lap, but she knew the scar was there. Numbness ruled her existence at this moment, along with the urge to shut everything away, even him. Especially him. Her life for the next weeks, months, or who knows how much longer would be tests, treatments, and then more tests, more treatments. She knew something of the process. She had read of it. She had imagined advising patients of courses of treatment—of trying to help, and calm, and assuage fears. And now those fears were her own.

Silently, she prayed, but found no comfort. She glanced at the doctor, ever so briefly, hoping to avoid his eyes, but she chose the wrong moment. Catching his glance, she knew what she saw there in his eyes, and she quickly looked back. She couldn't think about this now. This wasn't the time. They were nearing the hospital. It was time to think about her tests. Would she ever be able to speak to him again without this confusion? She gave up staring ahead and fixed her eyes on her hands in her lap. She mustn't think too much. She mustn't feel. She must concentrate on the day, on the morning, on their destination—the hospital.

She sat there as if out of time, lost in her own contemplations until the car stopped, and then he was opening the door to let her out. Looking up past him to the looming facade of the hospital, she stood up and fixed her eyes on the front door. Walking forward as if in a trance, she knew he was beside her. It was going to be a long day.

And then, hours later, they stood outside the same car as a light rain fell. Few words had been spoken this day, but now something had to be said. He passed her suitcase over, trying to assure her that the treatments would be successful, and she could only thank him for his kindness. It was all she could bring herself to say, although in her head—in her heart—she held so much more.

Taking the suitcase, she turned away, heading in the direction of an unfamiliar building and an uncertain future. She kept her eyes on her destination, not turning back—not letting him see the weight of despair that was now plainly etched on her face. Clutching her case, she urged herself forward. All that she could say had been said, but not all she wanted to say. As the door to the sanatorium grew ever closer, she could not look back. Only time would tell if she would ever be able to see him again, or speak. For now, the silence was all there could be.


	9. Chapter 9--In the Dark

_**A/N-This story covers moments from episode 2x07 of CtM, including the one I used for my Week 9 "Turnadette Tuesday" Tumblr post. This story works as something of a companion piece to Chapter 4 of my other story "Windows and Revelations", which deals with this time period-and the letter talked about here-from Sister Bernadette's point of view.**_

He hadn't even taken off his coat. He'd been home for hours now, and Timothy was safely in bed. The lone lamp lit the room, as usual on late nights like this. Patrick sat, listless, leaning on his hand and smoking a cigarette, staring at a half-filled sheet of paper on the table before him. He wouldn't even send this letter until next week, but he couldn't think of anything else to do. He was surprised he had even written as much as he had, when he had just written a letter at this very table the night before, and had sent it first thing this morning. His mind was such a muddle now.

Timothy was a perceptive boy. Too perceptive, Patrick thought. The boy had known something was wrong, earlier this evening as Patrick sat behind the wheel of his car, staring out at the rain. Something about Granny Parker and a sheepdog without his sheep, and losing Marianne, his son had said. Patrick wondered how much Timothy remembered that time. It wasn't too long ago, but to Patrick now it seemed an age. He had dismissed the boy's concern, but the truth was that Timothy was right. He did feel lost. The difference this time was that before, it was final. He knew he would never see his wife again. The grief was real, and crushing, but he could face it because he had known what he was facing. Now, there was no such knowledge. The future was cloudy, and even the present was uncertain. The bleakness was a wall, and he could not see the way around it. And now his concern was for someone he missed with all his heart, but did not have the right to miss.

All he could do was write, and so he did. He had received no replies, and he hoped that she did not begrudge his writing. He longed for a reply but he couldn't, and wouldn't, demand one. Before, he was able to fool himself into thinking perhaps she wasn't writing to anyone, but Nurse Franklin had disabused him of that notion a few days ago. He couldn't be more thankful that it had been Nurse Franklin he'd been talking to on that particular occasion, or else he might have given himself away. She was a capable nurse, and a kind one, but she had never displayed much concern for him as a person, and that day she had been preoccupied with a task, as well. She had kept her eyes on the nappies she had been folding and, if she noticed any oddness in the way he asked about Sister Bernadette or in his response to her news, she hadn't shown it before he made his retreat from the room.

"Tickety-boo and marvelous" he had said. Now, why in the world had he said that? He knew nobody in Poplar who spoke like that regularly, except for Nurse Noakes. And Nurse Noakes had been out of the country for months, so he couldn't chalk up his unusual phraseology to spending too much time at clinic around her. He'd fumbled with his teacup, dropping the spoon in the sink. Nurse Franklin surely must have noticed that, even as focused on nappy-folding as she had been. Perhaps she was just being polite to ignore his behavior, and she had no reason to suspect its cause. No. He was safe from her finding out. Timothy, however, was another matter entirely.

He had spoken of Sister Bernadette to Timothy on more than a few occasions of late, because the boy was now asking about her almost daily. He'd insisted on sending her a dead butterfly, of all things. He hadn't known about that until after the boy had given it to Nurse Franklin. If he had known, he might have tried to intercept the gift. In hindsight, he was glad he didn't stop it. Timothy cared about Sister Bernadette, and if sending her insects to diagnose would help to alleviate his concern, than why not? He thought he knew the sister well enough at this point to know that she would see the boy's intention in it.

He really didn't know her, he had to admit. They had a rapport, a way of communicating—a kind of symbiotic connection whenever they worked together that had been puzzling, but comforting. They had engaged in a few slightly personal conversations, and exchanged words about their feelings only once. But still, he knew how he felt. And now he knew she knew, as well, and he had been convinced she shared his feelings. But they couldn't speak, and now he could only write. Maybe he shouldn't be writing to her, or not as much as he did. One letter from a concerned colleague would be perfectly proper. Perhaps two letters wouldn't be a problem, but what number was this one? Six? Seven? He tried his best to keep the letters friendly and not overly personal, but he couldn't help but betray his feelings to a degree. Why had she not written back? Perhaps she didn't know what to say, or didn't feel free to? Perhaps she hadn't read them at all? He wouldn't know unless she wrote back.

He tried to keep them to once a week, in the guise of giving reports on the medical practice in Poplar, and news of Timothy, and updates on the patients they had worked with together. Everyone was asking about her, and he didn't know what to say. He didn't even know anything beyond the basic clinical information sent in the medical reports that were sent to the surgery. She was improving, steadily and surely, and that was a comfort, but physical health is only part of the story. How was she, really? He longed to know, and so he wrote.

He thought back to their very brief discussion on faith, months ago now. He knew God was important to her, and faith had been the center of her life for many years. He'd even found himself praying for her recently, for loss of anything else to do. He'd been at Nonnatus House, after a meeting with Sister Julienne about a particularly challenging case. There were no people around as he had passed the doorway to the Chapel on the way out, and he'd found himself drawn to that door. Standing just inside, he had leaned against the frame and looked up at the looming stained glass windows. He couldn't help but think of Sister Bernadette, and how she'd spent so much time in this place, praying with the sisters. Looking up at the light beaming through those windows, all he could do was hope, and offer a small prayer of his own. He still wasn't sure what he thought about God, but he hoped that if He did exist, He would be listening. He had mentioned that in the letter he had just sent. He hadn't told her the whole story, but he told her enough. He told her that he had prayed and some his own thoughts about faith, and then:

"_I tell myself that there has to be someone listening, and so there, I suppose, is my small seed of faith. Perhaps your recovery will see that kernel grow, or perhaps not. I can't promise I will ever believe as you do, but still I prayed, and I hope that prayer will be answered. Perhaps God, if He is there, will be kind enough to return you to Poplar whole, and healthy. Perhaps He will grant that request, and the wish that you will still call me friend after this series of letters. I do hope so, with all my heart_."

He hoped he wasn't being too forward. He hoped she would take his words as he meant them, sincerely. She had taught him so much about faith and strength, and he had wanted to tell her that. Also, he needed to assure her that he was holding her under no obligation , although he had known what his next words were implying:

"_Your life is yours, and your destiny is yours. I trust your faith will guide you where to go and what to do. I can only hope there will be a place for me somehow in your life when you return to Poplar, either as you were or whatever else happens. I am your friend, and I will be here no matter what you decide. I want you to know that, always_."

"When you return" he had written. Now that he thought about it, he didn't even know if she would return. The medical reports were promising. She was definitely responding to the treatments. Still, maybe she would find it easier to go somewhere else, rather than come back to Nonnatus where she'd see him nearly every day.

He looked up for a moment, scanning the room. The flat wasn't spotless, but it was as tidy as he could manage, and in the darkness it looked emptier than it did in the light. He was alone. Timothy was down the hall, asleep in his room, but Patrick had been staying up later of late. He didn't sleep well, and when he did sleep, his dreams were troubling. All he could do was bury himself in his work, and that was getting more difficult now as the months had gone by with no word from her.

He wanted to see her again, but he couldn't insist. He couldn't demand or expect anything. All he could do was hope, and write. Looking back down at the paper, he remembered how had finished off last night's letter-with some words about Timothy, and how nothing was the same without her. He had signed it as he always did, "Dr. Turner". He wanted to sign his full name, but for some reason that always seemed like too much. Even with as much as he had told her in the letters, he didn't want to assume an intimacy he had no right to expect. He didn't want to say too much, or to frighten her away, and so, perhaps foolishly, he kept the formal mode of address. The only difference now was that he no longer signed it "sincerely" or "sincerely yours". Now, it was simply "yours". He wondered what she would think we she read it. He wished he could see her face.

He rose from his chair, finally removing his coat and shuffling over to the hallway to hang it up. He would have to continue this new letter another time. It was time for bed now. He wasn't sure how well, or even if, he would sleep. Still, he'd said all he could say for now, and it was time to put his thoughts to rest, if that was even possible.

He walked over to the small, solitary lamp, flipped the switch and then, in near total darkness, headed for bed.


	10. Chapter 10--Out of the Mist

_**A/N—Here it is-CtM 2x08. This is my take on the "misty road" from Shelagh's**_ _**perspective. This covers the moment from my week 10 "Turnadette Tuesday" post and more.**_ _**This chapter contains one line of dialogue from the episode.**_

It was a long road. She couldn't even see more than a few feet in either direction in the mist of the day, but she knew where she was headed, no matter how she got there. She probably should have checked the bus schedule more thoroughly, but there was no use worrying about that. She had to get back to Poplar, and so she walked.

She carried two suitcases, one in each hand. They weren't particularly heavy, but she had been walking for a while and they were beginning to grow cumbersome. One case was nearly empty, in fact. She was now wearing the clothes it had contained when she had received it earlier this week. This suit, these shoes, hadn't been worn in a decade, but she was glad to have them. She had much to think about as she walked along on this seemingly deserted road at the start of a new life.

In the other case were the remnants of her life as a sister of the Order of St. Raymond Nonnatus—her habit and all its accessories. Strictly speaking, until she would be able to meet with Sister Julienne and sign the exit papers later that day, she was officially still Sister Bernadette. Still, to her that was a name for another time. In her mind and heart, she was Shelagh Mannion again now. No matter what else happened today, she knew that much.

It had been a cloudy time for Shelagh, these last few months, and the day's weather strangely reflected that, although for the first time in ages, she knew what she was supposed to do. And so she walked, uncertain about her day, but sure about two things—where she was supposed to be, and with whom.

It was a quiet road. No sound, very little sight. All she could hear was the plodding of her shoes on the road and the creaking of the suitcases as she carried them. The mist was cool on her face. She wondered how far she would have to walk until the next bus stop, or the nearest sign of civilization. She hadn't even seen a car pass since she'd left the bus. She was all alone, it seemed.

And then she heard it—the low rumble of an engine. She kept walking a few more steps, but then curiosity got the better of her. She turned her head and saw, out of the mist, a green car. She stopped, turning fully around to face it. For a moment, she held her breath. She knew this car, and more importantly, she knew its driver.

A knot formed in her stomach. She let out her breath. She stood still in her tracks, keeping her gaze on the car. This wasn't real, was it? It was something out of a dream. She'd hung up the telephone earlier this morning not knowing when she'd hear from him again, and now here he was, sitting still in his car and staring ahead in surprise? Wonder?

Still, she stood there, waiting. Part of her wished she could run to him, but she stood still. She put down her suitcases and watched as he got out of his car and, half walking, half running, he made his way over to where she was, still in her place, waiting.

It had been so long since she had seen him. Too long. He looked the same, but somehow energized and subdued at the same time. The ghost of a smile—that dear, marvelous little half-smile of his—came to his face and then dropped as he made his way over. She never dropped her eyes. Why should she? There would be no more need for hiding. No need to conceal her feelings. She could look at him now without restriction, and so she did, with joy.

And then he was there, so close, raising his hand as if he wanted to touch her, but hesitating. She couldn't speak. She could only watch him, and wait. This man—this beloved man, was standing before her, and now he was reaching out, placing his hand on her forehead in concern. Three months since she'd last seen him and now he was showing his care, not merely as a doctor but as a man. She leaned into his hand, still unable to speak. She could only revel in the warmth of his hand on her forehead.

All these months of waiting had come to this. The confusion, the anguish, the nights of wondering and praying on the brink of despair, and then the dawning, the realization and acceptance, had led to this moment. She closed her eyes and basked in the warmth. When she opened her eyes, her gaze met his and held there. Those deep, dark eyes and that careworn face. An intent gaze that was intended only for her, as hers was only for him.

A few words of concern, and then he was removing his coat, swinging it around onto her shoulders, pulling the lapels closed tight and holding them there. As close as he was, she hadn't minded the chill in the air. She'd barely even felt it. His warmth—his nearness—was all that mattered.

There was so much to say, so much to think, but for this moment all there could be was the two of them-two pairs of eyes, two faces, two minds and two hearts, clearly focused, never turning aside.

It was a split second, and it was a thousand years all at once. Finally, more words came, but they were spare, just enough. Words, feelings, names. Her own name, unused for all these years until this week, now freely spoken and joyfully received. And now she had a name for him as well-not "Doctor Turner", but Patrick. _Patrick_. It was a name that suited him perfectly. Suddenly, it seemed as if she should have known his name for years.

"There," she said. "We've made a start". Smiling, they stood there, unable to break the gaze and uninterested in anything else. She couldn't say how long they stood there. All she knew was that he was there, and she was with him, and this moment was all there could be. Of course she knew there were things to do, but none of that mattered in this one, precious instant.

Then finally, there was a movement in the corner of her eye as a head peeked out of the window beyond where the doctor… where _Patrick_ stood. She broke the gaze to see who it was, and Patrick also turned to look. Then, noticing he'd been noticed, the boy startled and quickly ducked back into the car. She thought she could see him climbing between the two front seats into the back.

Timothy. He'd brought Timothy with him, and as she realized this, her smile widened. She should have seen him when the car had stopped, she thought, but she had been too focused on the father in that moment to notice the son. She hadn't seen the boy in months, either, and she was glad to see him. The moment with Patrick was broken, but she hoped… no, she was sure that this would only be the first of many such moments.

Patrick grinned sheepishly, nodded, and then gestured toward the car. He walked closely by her side, opened the door, held her gaze as she got in. Shutting the door, he looked into her eyes for another brief moment before turning his head toward the suitcases and casting his eyes down in an almost apologetic manner. She nodded in understanding and he turned away, walking quickly to retrieve the cases as she cast a glance into the back seat and met the eyes of a smiling little boy.

"Hello", was all he said, in a barely audible voice, and she said the same in reply, smiling more broadly.

She heard the dull thud of the car boot and then Patrick was there again, looking over at her with that little smile of his as she sat there still, hands folded in her lap as she returned his gaze. He reached out and placed his hand lightly on hers, and she could feel her heart speeding up slightly.

"Ready?" he asked, and at her nod in response, he pulled his hand away with obvious reluctance, and started the engine, turning on the wipers to clear up the fogged windscreen and then heading off down the road.

And there she was-Shelagh Mannion, sitting in Patrick Turner's car, with Timothy in the back seat. Not much could be spoken for now, but much would soon be said. There were procedures to follow back in Poplar, papers to sign, and a new life to begin. There would be many changes and decisions to make, but now, in this moment, she was unafraid. She was where she belonged and she knew it, and that was all she needed for now.


	11. Chapter 11--Joy

_**A/N—This chapter takes place during the CtM 2013 Christmas Special, with events leading up to the moment I covered in my Week 11 "Turnadette Tuesday" post on Tumblr. It contains one line of dialogue from the episode. **_

This was the day. It was a day she once thought would never happen, and now it was here. To anyone who didn't know their situation, this would seem something of a whirlwind courtship—engaged in late October and married in early March. For Shelagh Mannion, however, the wait had seemed interminable. So much had happened in a little over four months, and she was now counting the hours until she would be walking out of the church with a new husband, a new name, and a new life.

Who could have known a few months ago, where she would be now? Then, when she had felt so isolated, she couldn't have guessed she would be standing here on the morning of her wedding at the house of a friend, preparing her bouquet as bridesmaids scurried about in the next room making their own preparations. It would be a busy morning, but Shelagh was glad to be able to afford a few minutes to stop, smell the fresh-cut flowers in her bouquet, and think. Soon Chummy would finish the last-minute adjustments on Shelagh's gown and the bridesmaids would all gather in this room to prepare Shelagh for the day. For now, though, she could look at the hyacinths and freesias, smell their crisp scent, and remember a time when she was sure none of this would be possible.

She had wanted to keep it quiet at first, or so she had told herself. As simple a wedding as she could manage—just get it over with so she could be Patrick's wife and Timothy's stepmother, and nobody would be able to ask questions or talk behind her back. Or wonder why she had left. Or feel rejected, or hurt, or betrayed, or all the other possibilities that had swirled through her mind in those early weeks.

Everything had been decided so suddenly, even though it had taken most of a year of confusion, doubt and indecision before she had known what she was supposed to do. So much had changed. This time last year, she was still a sister of the Order of St. Raymond Nonnatus. She was Sister Bernadette, and Patrick was only Dr. Turner. But confusion, tuberculosis, much prayer and finally, a long-delayed admission of love had led her to a roadside in the mist, and into the arms of her Patrick. Ten years living in community, following a schedule, obeying strict set of rules, and suddenly everything was new and not-new all at once. She was back in Poplar, but so much was different. She knew she couldn't avoid seeing the nurses and the sisters, but she had tried to stay out of their way as much as possible. They were always friendly when they saw her, but how could anything be the same? How could these dear, good people possibly understand when she wasn't entirely sure she understood herself?

All she had been sure of in those early days was Patrick. Well, Patrick and Timothy. Whenever she was with them the guilt, the fear was easy to put behind her. When she was with them she could think of the here and now rather than dwelling on what-ifs. She could manage well enough when she was alone in her room, as well, when nobody could see her but God. She had made her peace with God—submitted to His leading, knowing He had released her from her vows to the order. But God was one thing, and the sisters were another. And the nurses. And everyone, really, except for Patrick and Timothy. God was infinite and loving, and people—no matter how good their intentions—were still human, and limited. Would they understand? Would they feel rejected? Would they even want to see her again after such a complete break from what they had known? They had known her as Sister Bernadette. What would they think of Shelagh?

She shouldn't care as much, she had told herself, but she couldn't help it. She loved these people, and the sisters had been her family for a decade. As happy as she was to be with Patrick, to be planning a life with him, when she was honest with herself she knew she would miss the sisters. That had been the most difficult part of leaving the order—giving up that bond. God would go with her when she left, but the sisters wouldn't, and she knew things would never be as they were again. Still, with the decision being between the sisters and Patrick, the choice had been obvious to her.

Whenever she had managed to run into Sister Julienne, the older woman had been as friendly and welcoming as possible, but Shelagh couldn't shake the feeling that she had let her mentor down. The elder sister had been the only one she'd confided the full extent of her troubles to, but in those early weeks after leaving, she began to wonder if that had been wise. She trusted Sister Julienne completely, and she knew this dear woman would never betray her confidence. Still, it wasn't a secret when she returned and the engagement was announced, and that feeling of uncertainty when she had run into someone she had known before—even Sister Julienne. Whenever she had found herself in the same place as the sister, Shelagh couldn't help but feel a wall between them, and as much as she would have liked to, she couldn't shake the awkwardness. It was easier to just stay as close to Patrick and Timothy—and as far away from Nonnatus—as possible.

Looking back down at the table at the cuttings and leaves of the flowers that hadn't made it into her bouquet, Shelagh remembered what Sister Monica Joan had said about the hyacinths. Blue hyacinths for constancy, the elderly sister had said. How wondrous to think how, in the midst of all the chaos that had passed, God had remained constant. He had given her friends, and they would still be there no matter how much had changed. She should have known that, but it had taken a bomb scare, polio and a sense of utter hopelessness to drive her back to the sisters, and to the wise, reassuring counsel of Sister Julienne. It had been Sister Julienne who had made all the phone calls, spoken all the comforting words, shown Shelagh that she had not rejected the sisters, but rather had found her true path. It was because of those words—that assurance—that she was able to return to the hospital the next day with renewed energy to face whatever she had to face by Patrick's side. Together, they would sit with Timothy and pray, and hope, and wait, and know they had the prayers and love of the sisters supporting them. It had been a time of great fear and near despair, but she had not been alone.

With the joy of Timothy's restoration had come a different vision for the wedding. Timothy had been so determined to walk up the aisle with his father, and he'd progressed beyond anyone's wildest guesses. And the sisters had been there, and the nurses as well, with Timothy's continued recovery allowing her to think again about wedding plans, but this time with help. Before, she'd felt so hopeless in the bridal shop, but this time she had Trixie and Jenny to go with her and help her choose the gown of her dreams. And she had Chummy to do the alterations, and the three younger nurses to help her with her makeup. She hadn't needed to think about makeup and hair and clothes when she was Sister Bernadette. It was a big, strange and daunting world, but an exciting one still, and now she had friends to help her navigate it all.

Looking down at the bouquet, she almost immediately heard a burst of giggles from the other room and knew the bridesmaids would soon be descending. Sister Julienne would be arriving soon, as well, and then they would all head to the church together. How strange to think of what she had almost given up. It would always have been a joy to marry Patrick—that would not have changed. Still, to be here on the morning of her wedding day, surrounded by friends and family, was—she had to admit—what she had always wanted. She closed her eyes, offering a quick prayer of thanks and imagining what the day would hold.

A few hours later, Shelagh also closed her eyes in the church as she reached the end of the aisle and stood before the altar. Just a few moments to gather her thoughts—here in the presence of everyone who mattered, she opened her eyes to gaze into the face of the person who mattered most. Patrick. He held out his hand and she took it, neither of them able to disguise their delight as their faces beamed with happiness. As they turned to face the vicar, Sister Julienne's words of a few weeks ago came into Shelagh's mind: "you found joy, and I've never questioned it."

Joy. That's what this was, and it was only the beginning.


	12. Chapter 12--Mrs Turner

**_A/N—This chapter takes place during episode 3x01 of CtM, covering the moment I discussed in my Week 12 "Turnadette Tuesday" Tumblr post, and more._**

"Afternoon, Mrs. Turner!"

Shelagh smiled and returned the greeting as she started out on her walk home from the surgery. It thrilled her to hear people call her that. She couldn't recall this woman's name at the moment, although she knew she was one of Patrick's patients. She would have to make sure she familiarized herself with the records a little more so she could remember names. She wouldn't be working full-time at the surgery, but she would be around enough, and she liked being able to greet people by name when she could. As for herself, being greeted on the street as the doctor's wife was another one of the lovely blessings of this new time in Shelagh's life.

It had been less than a month since the wedding, but still, she didn't think she'd ever get over the joy of being referred to this way. She had waited for this time, planned it ever since she knew it would happen, and even wished for it in spite of herself before. Now, it was a reality. Sister Bernadette was no more, and even Shelagh Mannion had gone by the wayside. It had been an intense few months getting ready for the wedding, with so many unexpected challenges, but now that was all in the past. She had made her peace with the sisters, Timothy was growing stronger by the day, and now, even though she had practically lived in their flat for the past few months, she wouldn't have to leave every night. No more "going home", because she was home.

She hadn't been at the surgery long today—just about two hours as she had helped Patrick sort out the last few details in setting up his office in this new location. It was such a delightful change—a bright, well-lit space with so much more room than that dreary cavern of a surgery Patrick used to work in. Being displaced by the unexpected bomb had been an inconvenience, but this new location was definitely an improvement. And just being with him, even for a few minutes at a time, was a thrill in itself. Not so long ago, they hadn't even been able to look at each other without guilt, and now they could look freely, and freely admire. And then at the end of the day, they could go home and admire each other more thoroughly.

Again, he had asked her to help full-time. She had to admit it was a temptation. Administration and organization were second-nature to her, and she loved being able to see him, but home was where she belonged. She was sure of that, at least for now. Timothy would still need her. He was improving every day, but polio wasn't something you recovered from overnight. Neither was TB, for that matter, although she herself hadn't felt the effects of her illness in while. She'd been given a clean bill of health at her last check-up and simply been instructed to be careful of overexerting herself. That was a simple enough instruction, she thought, although idleness had never been in her nature. It hadn't been in Timothy's either, but he would need to take it easy for now, and she would be there to help him, and to keep him occupied while he had to spend extra time indoors for the time being.

And Patrick would need her, too. The flat had become something of a gloomy place in the two years since Marianne had died, with Patrick and Timothy merely existing and trying to make the most of their situation. Shelagh had already begun the task of brightening the place up—putting her own stamp on it—before she had moved in. Now, however, she threw herself into that process in earnest. Household chores had never been a burden to her. She enjoyed tidiness and order, and had done so ever since she was a small child and had to take over running the house for her father after her mother had died. She had learned to enjoy cleaning because she really hadn't had a choice. Anything to have been even a small comfort to her melancholy father, and she had enjoyed his rare smiles of approval as she learned to maintain an orderly household. Later, as a sister of the Order of St. Raymond Nonnatus, order had been the rule of the day, and she had thrived on it. It wasn't until certain feelings had begun to disrupt her daily routine that she had fallen into a more introspective, somber mood, and especially at the sanatorium after her diagnosis.

All that was in the past now, she thought happily. Now, the flat was bright, tidy and full of love. She had brought her own personal touches to the place, cleaned out months of dust and kept the laundry current, the rooms well-ordered, and the meals fresh and on time. Putting aside the heartaches of the past, all she could think of now was the glorious present, and the future.

Glancing at her wristwatch, Shelagh sped up her pace. It wasn't a long walk at all—just around two corners to the other side of the building, but it was near the time for Timothy to get home from school. They had been able to arrange occasional rides for him so Patrick didn't have to drive him every day, and she wanted to be there when he arrived. This particular skirt wasn't the easiest to walk briskly in, however. She was beginning to think the skirt was another failed experiment. Clothes had been one of the more challenging adjustments she'd had to make since leaving the order, but slowly she was starting to discover which styles she felt most comfortable in, and which she didn't. This skirt was one of the latter, she conceded. Patrick appeared to like it, she had observed, but he wasn't the one who had to wear it, so she was thinking it would go in her drawer for the time being. Maybe she'd try it out again later, or maybe she wouldn't and Nonnatus would get a new donation for their charity box.

She certainly did enjoy being admired by her husband, but fortunately, it didn't seem to matter too much what she wore. She would get those looks from him regardless. That was a nice feeling, being admired by the man she loved so much. And she'd done her fair share of admiring as well, she thought, starting to feel a flush to her cheeks as she recalled her wedding, and the night that had followed.

She smiled to herself, realizing that she had been one of the more overeducated brides concerning the marital act, considering she had never actually experienced it. Although she had made a vow of chastity as a nun, she was also a nurse, and so she had developed a more clinical approach to dealing with that particular subject. Having had many a frank conversation with patients at clinics concerning various aspects of reproduction, she had been well-versed in the theory. Now, however, she knew that the practice was entirely more enjoyable than the theory. She had expected to be nervous on her wedding night, only to be somewhat surprised that Patrick had been almost equally so. It had been a while for him, and he wanted to make sure everything was ideal for her. Desire had soon overcome nerves, however, and they had enjoyed a rather pleasant honeymoon.

Now that they had settled into the everyday routines of marriage, every day was a new discovery, not just physically but in everything. Just knowing there was a man who loved her, and who would be the first face she saw when she awoke in the morning, was a delight. She reveled in all his little words of endearment, and glances, and kisses, and the feeling of his arms around her when he held her close, and the look in his eyes when she walked into a room. She'd lived a life of austerity and self-denial for so long, and she hadn't particularly sought out flattery, but Patrick's appreciation wasn't flattery. It lit up his eyes and his face, and it warmed her heart to know this wonderful man cared for her so, just as she cared for him. And now she didn't have to hide her regard, although there was definitely something to be said for privacy. They had a bedroom, with a door that locked, and that had become their precious retreat. That had been something denied them before, and now it was something to be treasured, even revered.

For so many years romance had been something from the films, or for her friends but not for herself. She could dream when she was younger—the ethereal dreams of young girl at the cinema-but the reality was so much more than the dream. Her husband wasn't Clark Gable, or Cary Grant, or Gary Cooper, or some other idealized film star. He was Patrick Turner, and that was dream enough for her. And she hoped that sometime soon another dream would be realized—a dream that was symbolized by a little sewing project she'd recently begun but hadn't yet told Patrick about, although she knew she would soon.

Their little flat was already so filled with life—the life of a newly married couple and their dear little boy. Her heart was filled with love for her treasured new family, but there was still room for more. The little half-finished nightdress she had tucked away in the drawer in her bedroom was waiting for a little one to wear it, and how she hoped that would be soon.

And here she was at the door, opening it and stepping into this place of such comfort, such hope. It had only been a month that she had lived here, but already she couldn't imagine another home. Closing the door, she looked down again at her watch. It was only a few minutes before Timothy would be home, full of stories of his day and homework assignments to complete, sat at the table while Shelagh would be preparing for the evening's meal. Before long, Patrick would walk through the door to join his son and new wife.

Only one month, and she still hadn't tired of being called Mrs. Turner. She didn't think she would ever tire of it. She thanked God every day in her prayers for her new family. Already, she had so much to be thankful for, and so many wishes for the future.


	13. Chapter 13--A Place of Safety

_**A/N—This chapter takes place during CtM 3x02, covering the moment I discussed in my Week 13 "Turnadette Tuesday" post on Tumblr. It contains one line of dialogue from that episode.**_

"I think we're going to be all right". That's what Patrick had said just last night, as they had sat on the couch cradling the precious newborn, the innocent caught in the middle of a dreadful situation. They would be all right. Shelagh knew that, but what of little Carole? Although they had every reason to believe she would be well, brought up in a good home, still the thought of the circumstances into which the child had been born wasn't easy to deal with.

Mrs. Aston wasn't well, Jenny had said. Poor woman. What would her home life be like now? Shelagh recalled only a few days ago before clinic, Trixie and Chummy detailing Mr. Aston's difficult, bullying nature. And then just yesterday, Patrick had brought the baby home, describing the man's angered reaction and menacing posture, and his poor wife's abject fear. He'd even alerted the police to keep an eye out in case the man became violent. Shelagh had shuddered at the thought. No matter what Mrs. Aston had done, no woman should need to be afraid of being harmed by her own husband. And now the woman had been forced to part with this child she had clearly cherished, never knowing what her life would be like—being able only to wish that her life would be one of peace, and love.

Shelagh heard the front door close as she stood there in her living room with her own husband right there behind her. Miss Ellaby and Nurse Lee—and baby Carole—had gone. The light was hazy, beaming through the curtained windows this late afternoon, and in the shadowy light she could feel Patrick's presence behind her, and his strong hands on her shoulders as she glanced down at the floor, so many conflicting thoughts in her mind. How fortunate she was to have married the kindest man she knew. She had nothing to fear from her Patrick. His arms were a place of comfort, of safety and not of threat. Unlike Mrs. Aston, who had a life to live with a man she couldn't trust, and who had seemingly never trusted his own wife.

And now there was a child—a dear, sweet little life, and the woman's own children wouldn't know that Carole was living, growing up, hopefully in a home with loving parents and far from the brutal atmosphere of Cyril Aston's home. There was nothing Shelagh could do now but stand there and offer a silent prayer for Carole, and for Mrs. Aston. She and Patrick had done what they could. They'd looked after Carole, taken care of her, laughed as they watched Timothy make faces at her. They'd held her and rocked her when she cried, watched her as she slept. Shelagh couldn't deny that a part of her had earnestly wished that Carole could stay, although she knew that wouldn't have been ideal for the child. Indeed, the best thing for this little girl would be to be brought up as far away from Cyril Aston as possible.

And soon, maybe she and Patrick would have a little one of their own. She dearly wished it, so much more as the days went by. Even now, there was the hope that she hadn't yet shared with her husband. His hands slid down her shoulders now and she leaned back into his embrace as he wrapped his arms around her and held her close. No words were spoken, but they didn't need to be. She knew this strong, loving man was here for her, and soon they might be joined by a new life they wouldn't have to say goodbye to.

She would keep it to herself, she resolved. As much as she wished to tell Patrick of her missed cycle—of the chance that her long-held dream may indeed be coming true—she would hold off. It was still early—she had missed cycles before, and it was only one for now, although almost time for another. Still, she couldn't shake that wish—that ever present thought that maybe this was a cause for joy. They had talked about this possibility, and that she didn't want to wait, and he was perfectly fine with that. She knew he would be thrilled. She wanted to be sure, though, to surprise him with the good news, to see the look of delight on his handsome face.

Finally turning in his arms, she rested her cheek on his shoulder and they stood there for a moment. She still couldn't believe this wonderful man was now her husband, and she still thanked God every day for that.

"She's going to be all right," he finally said, whispering it softly into her ear as he gently stroked her back. In the warmth of his embrace, all did seem right.

"I know," she said quietly. She knew he was talking about Carole, but she couldn't help but think about Doris Aston as well, for whom the future wasn't quite as bright. She shifted a little in his arms, looking up into his deep brown eyes. "I hope so."

Here, she nuzzled further into his shoulder, and there were no more words as they stood there, swaying gently in the embrace. The warmth of it was still such a wonder to her. To think of how safe she felt here, wrapped in his arms. This was still new to her, but she knew it was never something to be taken for granted.


	14. Chapter 14--Watching and Wishing

**_A/N—This chapter takes place during CtM episode 3x03._**

She was asleep now, finally.

In the dim light of evening, a lone figure leaned back in his chair in a well-appointed room of a private clinic on Harley Street. His face lined with care, his eyes fixed ahead. The magazine in his lap lay there unread. He might as well have closed that up and put it away, as focused as he was on the dozing form of his wife in the metal-framed bed across from him. The creases on her forehead had smoothed. The haunted expression in her eyes was now hidden in slumber. For now, the disappointments of the afternoon had been put on hold, but Patrick knew they wouldn't stay that way.

Oh, how he wished he could protect her from harm, give her everything she wanted, dreamed of. She was so young, so beautiful. So full of energy and life. She had brought such joy to him in a few short months, and now… He didn't know. All he wished was that she wouldn't hurt, and his helplessness made him hurt all the more.

He had spoken to Ted earlier, had everything explained. He'd seen her chart, only briefly. He thought about seeking out the nurse and asking more questions, but no. At this moment, he had to shut down those thoughts. She didn't need him to be a doctor right now. She had a doctor, and Ted Horringer was one of the best. What Shelagh needed now was her husband.

He had sat there with her, broken the news. He'd tried to stall, but she'd insisted. That was just like Shelagh, he was learning. She wanted the truth, no matter how painful it would be. And here he was, a physician. He'd told patients similar news before, and it had always been difficult seeing the disappointment in their eyes. Nobody wants to be the deliverer of news that shatters dreams. Still, this was far, far worse. This was his wife. His beloved Shelagh—the woman who had taken him by surprise with her love, brought him back to life—a woman who had already lived through a year of confusion and life-threatening crisis before the joy that had followed. She had been through so much, and now there was this.

It had been a dream he had shared. They had spoken of it early on, before they were even married. He knew she didn't want to wait to have a child, and he'd agreed. He had a son he loved, and he knew that Shelagh loved Timothy as well, but she had wanted a child of her own-their child, together, and a little brother or sister for Timothy. It was something she wanted so much, and the thought was such a wonderful one, it had taken no persuasion on her part to get him to agree. He remembered the happiness of bringing up a small child—little baby laughs and gurgles, babbling and first steps and watching them learn and grow. He wanted to share that with Shelagh, and he knew she would make a wonderful mother. She had always been good with children. He'd seen that when she was still Sister Bernadette and his feelings for her were simply those of a friendly colleague. Now that he loved her, he wished so much that he could live this dream with her.

It wasn't to be. Tuberculosis, the terrible disease that had almost stolen Shelagh from him altogether, had now stolen her hope. And so here they were, in the fading evening light, as she slept under the influence of the pain medicine and he watched, wishing that there would be a magic elixir that could make this all better. He was a medical man, however—a man of science, of practicality. He knew no such magic cure would come, no matter how much he wished it.

He would focus on hope. That's what he must do. She must know that no matter what lay ahead for them, he loved her, and he had not married her for children. He had married her because life without her made no sense.

He was nearly fifty years old. He'd long abandoned the idea of having another child. He had Timothy and he'd already lost Marianne. He hadn't even thought of remarrying until he'd been caught off guard by his feelings for the last person he would have expected to fall for. This was an overwhelming love—something he'd never experienced before. He had loved his first wife, been happy with her and had missed her dearly when she died. Still, their courtship had been more conventional, more expected. Although he and Marianne had both had pain in their pasts, they hadn't dwelt on that. They hadn't even spoken of it except in vague generalities. The war had ended and it was time to put those devastations aside. Their falling in love had been sweet and lovely and comforting, like an ocean breeze on a clear day.

With Shelagh—well, then she had been Sister Bernadette—love had hit him more like a hurricane. It was an overpowering force that couldn't be resisted no matter how much he tried, and when they finally met on that deserted road and declared their feelings, it had been like the first sun after the storm. Despite the mist and the fog of that day, the sun had risen in their hearts. The clouds had cleared and all was bliss, and hope, and thinking ahead and not behind. The past was gone, and all they had was the present, and the future.

More pain had come, of course, in the form of Timothy's polio and Shelagh's estrangement from the sisters, but they had gone through those crises together, and so much had been restored. Their first few months of marriage had been wonderful. Shelagh had moved in and brought light and life to their once-dingy little flat, and again the future had looked so clear. He had seen that light diminish just a few short hours ago. How could he restore it now?

His thoughts were disturbed now by a faint sound from his wife's bed. She had shifted slightly and made a small noise in her sleep, almost like a whimper. Patrick almost jumped to his feet, just catching the magazine before it fell to the floor. He stood in his place, as still as possible, watching. Her peaceful expression was gone now, and her brows were furrowed as if in pain, but her eyes were still shut and he knew he shouldn't wake her. She needed the sleep. The rest would aid in healing. It was agony to watch her, but he couldn't disturb her now. If she awoke, he would be there in an instant to comfort her, hold her hand. He wished he could hold her in his arms, but she had to remain flat on her back for now, and he didn't want to make things worse. She needed to heal, and he needed to keep her safe.

They would move forward from this. They had to. There was no use dwelling in the past. They had each other now, and there would still be a future. Maybe there wouldn't be a child, but she had made him happier than he ever thought he would be again, and they still had Timothy. Patrick knew she would need time to grieve, and he would be there for her, but he wanted so much to see that lovely smile again, and to see the hope in her eyes. She had brought him so much hope, and that was all he wanted for her.

He stood there for a few moments, looking intently at her face until finally he was relieved to see the lines smooth out again and the look of peace return. He put down the magazine and sank back into the chair, knowing that peace wouldn't stay but glad that it was there for now. She needed this rest. Soon, she would have to return home, and he would be there with her.

He glanced at his watch, noticing the late hour. He knew a nurse would soon come and send him home, but he would stay here as long as he could. Tim was at Cubs tonight. Fred had agreed to take him, and also to drive him home. That was a blessing, at least.

He didn't want to leave Shelagh. The thought of spending even one night without her was painful, and knowing she'd be here, even for a few hours, by herself was nearly unbearable. No matter how much he'd argued, however, pleaded with his friend, Ted had refused to change his order. Patrick couldn't stay. He mustn't disturb Shelagh's rest. He could come back first thing in the morning, and that's what he planned to do.

Another whimper, and Patrick was up again, staring intently at his wife. She shifted again under the covers, but this time, her eyes fluttered, and then opened. Blinking in the dim light without her glasses, she caught sight of Patrick and squinted, a mixture of pain and relief in her eyes. It still amazed Patrick how much she could say without speaking.

"You're still here," she said quietly, subdued but obviously relieved.

"Of course," he told her, and he was at her side in two steps. Gently, he sat down on the bed, taking her hand, lightly kissing it, and then not letting go. "I'm not leaving until they throw me out."

He smiled then, and she offered a weak smile in return, and then grimaced, placing her free hand on her stomach just above where the incision had been.

Not letting go of Shelagh's hand, Patrick turned as if to get up.

"Are you all right? Do you need me to call the nurse?"

Her face relaxed slightly and she squeezed his hand. "No. Not yet," she told him. "Please. Stay."

He settled back down, looking her in the eyes. "I'd stay all night, if they let me."

She smiled again, that same weak, sad little smile that broke his heart. "Tim needs you," she said.

He nodded, resigned, then brightened his countenance as best he could for her sake, placing his other hand on their already clasped hands.

"I'll be back in the morning. First thing. You'll go to sleep tonight, and when you wake up, I'll be here."

Another wince, and he leaned in closer. "Are you sure you're all right?"

She nodded. "It does sting a little, but that's not what hurts the most."

His heart sank, seeing the hollow expression in her usually bright eyes. He didn't know what to say, so he just squeezed her hand. Seeing the tears brimming in her eyes, he almost couldn't bear it, but he couldn't drop his gaze.

"I know, my love," he said finally, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing it again. "I'm here."


	15. Chapter 15--Rehearsal

_**This chapter takes place during CtM episode 3x04, covering the moments I discussed in my Week 15 "Turnadette Tuesday" post on Tumblr and my additional "Friday Follow-up" post.**_

As Shelagh Turner stood before the small crowd at the Poplar Community Centre, she tried not to be nervous. She had had hopes for a good turn-out to choir practice, but she had never imagined quite so many would show up on the first night. Sadly, she knew the reason, and it had little to do with her own recruiting efforts.

Poor Alec. He was such a young man, and with such a promising future. Shelagh hadn't known him well, but he'd always seemed so personable and kind. And he and Jenny had seemed so happy. By all accounts, Nurse Lee wasn't doing well. Considering recent events, the thought of losing someone she loved was too much for Shelagh to dwell on at this moment, but that was a reality for Jenny. So many of the Nonnatus nurses were here to show their support, and Constable Noakes too, representing his wife. As much as Shelagh had wished her choir's first public performance would be for a happier occasion, offering to perform at Alec's funeral was the least she could do to offer some sort of comfort, even in a small way.

The room had been buzzing with activity, filling up quickly with new members she had recruited in addition to those who had some connection with Alec, or had read about him in the paper, like Mrs. Chubb and her singing friends from clinic. And Fred was there as well, lending support in his own encouraging way. The handyman had a simple, easy way of helping that always seemed to set those around him at ease.

For Shelagh, though, the most important people here tonight were her own family. Timothy, so reluctant to participate before, was now here without complaint, offering his own thoughts about the arrangement of the chosen piece, Mozart's_** Ave Verum Corpus**_. As young as he was, the boy was clearly musically gifted. She knew that made Patrick proud, and she shared in that pride. Timothy was a dear boy, and she was glad for his help.

Most importantly, though, was her husband. Beloved, compassionate Patrick, He'd been particularly affected by Alec's death, but Shelagh hadn't noticed the extent of it until earlier today, as preoccupied as she had been with tonight's arrangement. She'd tried her best to assure him that Alec's death wasn't his fault, and she hoped he would believe that. Patrick was the most dedicated doctor she knew. Although he had told her the story, she wouldn't have needed to hear the description of her husband's care for Alec to know that Patrick had done the best he could do. Still, they hadn't spoken long before Shelagh's own grief had been brought to mind, and for some reason this seemed to bring Patrick back. From that moment, his expression had softened and, after a few minutes of quiet commiseration, he was sitting with her at the dining table, poring over Mozart.

Patrick had not rested since they had arrived earlier this evening. He'd helped set up chairs, conferring with Fred about how many they might need, and later, when he had just returned from the hallway, following Mrs. Chubb and her friends with their prams, Shelagh had assumed he'd been helping at the doors. Although she'd known he was here—they'd arrived together—simply seeing him walking toward her from the doorway had been a comfort to her. She'd done all she could do, and this rehearsal would be the best she could make it, but she couldn't have done it without Patrick. He had given her a quick reassuring smile as he walked past her to join Timothy at the piano and she stepped forward to greet Mrs. Chubb.

It was heartening to see how many had turned out when they didn't even know Alec personally. Of course she'd told Mrs. Chubb and her friends about the choir, but she wasn't sure if they would turn up, considering they were all young mothers with infants in tow. When they arrived with their prams, Shelagh had been so encouraged that she had almost forgotten her own disappointment, and the thought that she'd never be in their position, pushing a pram of her own and its precious contents.

Almost.

She never entirely forgot. As busy as she'd made herself with preparing for the choir, she couldn't forget. She tried to put it behind her. She hadn't even told Patrick of the reason she'd been speaking with Sister Julienne in the first place. He'd told her to put the night dress away, to forget and move on, but that had been easier said than done. So after Sister Julienne's suggestion and even despite the initial disappointment, she'd poured herself into this task, recruiting new members and promoting the choir as best she could, trying to stay cheerful. She knew Patrick could still see her grief, had seen it just this afternoon, and his presence was always a help, but there was no need to bring up the night dress again. It was probably in another family's hands by now, being put to the good use for which it had been intended. For Shelagh, that must be allowed to be comfort enough.

She was thankful for the work, and the renewed energy and purpose she'd felt since deciding to take over the choir. She'd never done anything like this before, but she'd taught classes, led presentations on nursing and midwifery, and she'd always loved singing. In fact, she'd discovered in the months since leaving the order that singing with the sisters was one of the things she missed the most. Perhaps one day she'd join them again. She knew anyone was welcome if they wished.

No. Not yet. As much as she appreciated the reconnection with her former sisters, she wasn't Sister Bernadette anymore. She was Shelagh Turner, and she needed to find her own place. She couldn't fall back on old ways simply because they were familiar. She had this new task before her now, and she would put everything she could into it.

And so here she was tonight, before a crowd of willing volunteers, some of whom she knew and some strangers. She'd stood there huddled with her husband and stepson, working out the last details of the arrangement and the logistics of the practice, grateful for every moment she could spend with them before she would be standing up there on her own. She'd offered a quick prayer earlier before anyone else had arrived, as well. She needed God's strength as well. She always would. And now here she was, standing with all those eyes looking at her, and ears waiting to hear her instructions. Here was Shelagh Turner, director of the Poplar Choral Society, and it was time to speak.

She watched as Timothy took his seat at the piano and Patrick found a chair in the front row. She was glad he'd chosen to sit there, where she could see him throughout the practice. His presence was always a comfort to her. His reassuring smile, just for her, would give her strength.

After a brief introduction that went well enough, the first few notes of Mozart had begun. Just as they were about to start the rehearsal in earnest, she caught Patrick's eye. There was that wonderful smile, and a wink that caught her slightly off-guard. She couldn't help but smile in return. It was time to get started, and at least for this evening, she was ready.


	16. Chapter 16--Family

**_This chapter takes place during episode 3x05 of CtM, covering the moment I discussed in my Week 16 "Turnadette Tuesday" Tumblr post._**

"You already have a child, Shelagh," Sister Evangelina had told her. "His name is Timothy."

Those words, and the story behind them, had stuck in Shelagh's mind since they had been spoken. It had only been a day, but it had been an eventful one. In fact, it had been an eventful week. Sitting here beside Timothy at the Poplar Community Centre, waiting for his turn to be evaluated, gave her more time to reflect.

They sat beside a long line of mothers and children, waiting. It was a familiar place for Shelagh, but not a familiar position, sitting here in this chair surrounded by strangers. To these people's eyes, she and Timothy would be nothing unusual. There would be nothing to distinguish Shelagh as the boy's stepmother. Even the ward sister at the London had mistaken her for Tim's mother all those months ago. What did a "stepmother" look like, anyway? Shelagh hadn't known either when she had married Patrick a few months ago. Perhaps that was the problem. "Stepmother" was such an intimidating word. It conjured images of evil women from fairy tales and horror stories. Snow White and Cinderella had stepmothers. She had vowed not to be like that, but what kind would she be? And what did Timothy think?

He surely didn't see her as a villain from a fairy tale. That was clear enough. He'd even begun calling her "Mum", entirely on his own. Hearing him say that brought her joy, but also a degree of something else. It wasn't exactly guilt. It was certainly an uneasy feeling. She had never expected to supplant Marianne in Timothy's life, and she knew he would always remember his first mother. She hoped he would. She knew she would never have forgotten her own mother even if her father had remarried.

She glanced down at Tim, who was sitting so still on the chair beside her, looking down at his leg braces with a mixture of trepidation and eagerness. Neither of them had spoken since they had first sat down. Shelagh had always felt a sort of kinship with Timothy, having lost her own mother at nearly the same age. Still, her father hadn't remarried. He'd carried his grief with him for the rest of his life, and as cheerful as he'd tried to be with her especially in his later years, Shelagh could always see the weight of that grief reflected in his eyes. She'd sometimes found herself wishing he'd find a new wife, for his sake even more than her own. The idea of having a new mother had crossed her mind, certainly, but mostly she just wanted her father to be happy again.

She and Patrick hadn't spoken much of Marianne, but Shelagh had been grateful when she'd heard Sister Evangelina's story, and now she saw Marianne's words to her newborn son as something of a bequest. This dear boy had been entrusted to her—to Shelagh-in a way, even though Marianne couldn't have known that when she had uttered her wish that he would always be loved. Shelagh couldn't worry about being a stepmother, or whatever that title was supposed to mean. She would do her best to fight back those doubts, those thoughts that maybe she should keep her distance, not get too attached. She was here, and Tim needed her, and she loved him. That was what mattered.

Things had gone a little better with Tim in the past week, since her confrontation with Patrick. That had been their first real argument and it had disturbed her, but it hadn't lasted because Shelagh had known Patrick was right. She couldn't protect Timothy from the world. She could love him and guide him, but she couldn't keep out all trouble. She was a grown woman and she couldn't keep out the trouble in her own life, so how would she be able to do so for Tim? It would be best for him to face his challenges rather than hide from them, and today's challenge was the Gait Assessment Clinic.

And so they sat, and Shelagh's mind couldn't help but wander, back to that previous day when so much that had needed to be said had finally been spoken. She hadn't expected to be back at Nonnatus House in any official capacity, even if it was temporary and only as a favor to Sister Julienne, but now that she had time to think, she could see it had been a valuable time.

She had taken charge in Sister Julienne's stead numerous times before, although this time was different for many reasons. This wasn't even the Nonnatus she remembered. This wasn't the ancient, shadowy, drafty, red brick and wood building that had been her home for 10 years. This was a new place, big and imposing but brighter, more open, with a new face among the sisters and some old faces—Nurse Lee and Sister Julienne—absent, at least for the time being. She was in charge, and she was surprised at how easy it was to fall back into an old routine. This was her element, however temporary it was, and whatever awkwardness she might have felt at the beginning had quickly evaporated as the days had gone by. At Nonnatus, she knew what was expected of her and had done her job well. For the most part, things had run smoothly for her, except for the small problem of Sister Evangelina.

The older sister's grudge—or the degree of it-had been something of a surprise, but once it had been sorted out there was relief, and new understanding. Though Shelagh couldn't deny the vague emptiness she still felt when thinking about the future, and what might have been, she could see more clearly now that no matter what was to come, and even though she would probably never bear a child of her own, she still had a son who needed her. She hadn't given birth to him, but she loved him all the same. She had to be grateful to Sister Evangelina for that valued reminder of hope, and love, and at least some sort of purpose.

Today, her purpose was Timothy. Patrick would be arriving later to pick them up and drive them home, but he had promised he would try to arrive early. Shelagh hoped he would make it. Although the boy hadn't said it, she knew it was important to Timothy for his father to be there. And it was important for her, as well. She could just imagine the look of joy on her beloved husband's face as Tim took those halting steps. If only he could get here soon.

"Timothy Turner?"

The voice of the nurse broke through Shelagh's thoughts, and when Timothy looked at her, she could see the hope in his eyes. She was glad to be here with him, as much as she had feared this moment before. She couldn't even bring herself to think of this clinic when Sister Julienne had brought it up last week. What if Tim wasn't ready? What if he had failed? She hadn't wanted to imagine his disappointment, or his getting hurt. That had been last week, but now she knew this is where Tim needed to be. This was what he wanted, and what he had been working for, and he needed to try. This boy was so determined, and he had been so brave. He had been playing outside more than ever since his illness, and his legs did seem to be getting stronger. Today he would be the greatest test, and no matter what the outcome, she would be with him.

And she was there. She was there to follow the nurse into the cubicle, to listen to the instructions, to help Tim remove the braces from his legs. She was there when the nurse handed her Tim's new shoes. She was there to help him lace them up, and then to stand with him as he rose on wobbly legs and prepared to walk. She was there, and she'd walk with him, but she was determined to keep a distance.

This was Tim's day. He had to do this himself. Shelagh could see the raw determination on his face as he took each careful step, trying not to lean too much on the canes he had been given. One step, two, three. She watched, and walked, keeping her arms at her sides and her eyes on her son as they slowly made their way forward with the eyes of children and mothers fixed on them.

A faint creak and she knew the doors in front of them had opened. A quick glance up and she knew who was there. She'd have known it without the sound, as Tim's face reflected a renewed determination. As glad as she was, as thrilled as she could be that Patrick was here to witness this, she had to keep her eyes on Tim. She stayed with him as he dropped one cane, and then the other. All on his own power, he walked. A few more steps until she had to reach out before Tim tumbled to the floor. Instead, he fell into her arms, and then both were wrapped in Patrick's strong embrace.

Here they were, with everyone watching. All three Turners, and suddenly they were all that mattered. Shelagh had been caught off-guard, but she welcomed the embrace, taking in Tim's gleeful words of accomplishment and Patrick's encouraging affirmation. Smiling widely, she clung to them—this wonderful man and this brave boy. And then Patrick caught her eye and gave her that marvelous smile, and she knew even more this was where she was supposed to be. She still couldn't guess the future, but for the meantime that didn't seem as important. Now, it was just her, and Patrick, and Timothy. This was her joy—her family.


	17. Chapter 17--Hoping

_**This story takes place towards the end of CtM episode 3x06,. It covers the scenes discussed in my Week 17 "Turnadette Tuesday" Tumblr post and more.**_

There were so many papers. It was such a big stack of forms with so many questions—names, dates, family background, work history, reference forms. All these forms, and all so official. So many dreams were represented in these dull, dry questionnaires. As numerous and complicated as the forms certainly were, they didn't seem like much considering the circumstances.

Now, she was considering the years of dreaming, months of wondering, weeks of despairing, and more weeks of trying to move on. Shelagh Turner was grateful for what she had, but that thought of more was always there. Every week at clinic, surrounded by babies, knowing she couldn't bear one of her own, knowing she'd never experience the feeling of a young life growing inside her, had been difficult to get used to. She had a family now, a gift of God as surely as there could be. She had a husband she loved and who loved her, and his dear son whom she had come to love as her own. Still, as happy as she had been, as determined as she had been to look to the bright side, there was still that question of something missing, and she had never been able to find an answer for it until just a few days ago.

Why hadn't she thought of adoption before? It wasn't as if she had been unfamiliar with the concept. She and Patrick had even sheltered sweet baby Carole a few months ago as the Children's Society found a home for her. Now sitting at the kitchen table, rifling through the seemingly endless ream of forms, she couldn't quite answer that question. Perhaps it had been her preoccupation with her own grief, or with simply trying to get on with her life, with the everyday tasks of family and clinics and choir practice. Perhaps she didn't want to think too much about what she couldn't have. Or perhaps it just hadn't been the right time. Whatever the reason, none of that mattered now. A short conversation with Jean Monk, and then with Patrick, and finally with Timothy had opened this world to her—a new world of hope, and she clung to it with both hands, just as she now clutched these forms from the Church of England Children's Society. So many pages, so many blanks to fill out, but the estimated hours of drudgery were of little consequence. Now, she had a purpose, and she would see it through.

There was a small matter of Patrick's hesitation, but that couldn't be serious. She didn't want to dwell on that right now. As daunted as he had seemed a few minutes ago, he hadn't expressed any concerns before. He had been all for the adoption, to her great delight. Thinking back on the light in his eyes as they had stood there in the kitchen, holding hands and talking of dreams that now may finally be fulfilled, she smiled. Of course he was supportive. It had only been the length of the forms that had given him pause. Later this evening they would sit together and begin the process. Soon, perhaps in not too much time at all, a precious new child would join their family.

So much had changed in just a few months. Looking back, thinking of where—and who—she had been just this time last year still amazed her. What would Sister Bernadette think to look at her now, Shelagh thought to herself as she heard Patrick stirring in the other room. Straightening the forms into a neat stack, she laid them carefully on the table, back toward the wall so they would be out of the way as she set out the evening meal. It wasn't time to think of the past now. The past was gone, and only the present and the future remained.

Surveying the area around her, she took in the small but well-appointed space. This thoroughly domestic haven was so unlike the large kitchen at the old Nonnatus House—but that space had belonged to the community. This little kitchen was a family space, but it was also hers. She was under no orders to keep anything a certain way—not bound by vows of obedience and poverty. Even now, free from those restrictions, she wasn't a woman of extravagant tastes. The simple, well-ordered comforts of home were more than adequate for her and her family. There was the small refrigerator, simple cooker, the neatly ordered cupboards and counter, and the ever-present teakettle and teapot with its green and white cosy. There was this little table, where she would serve breakfast every morning. Usually it was a simple affair—cereal, toast and tea, but her boys were more than appreciative. And she loved just watching them, as Patrick and Timothy would eat their breakfast and discuss anticipated events of the day, and then she would see them off to work and school. And soon, dare she even think it now, there could be another chair at this table—a high chair, and its small, precious occupant waiting to be fed. She could almost hear the laughter and chatter—of four voices instead of three.

Leaving the stack of papers for now, Shelagh rose from the table, just catching a glimpse through the hatch of Patrick in the living room. He was standing now, looking aimlessly out the window as he quietly smoked a cigarette, his eyes distant. She had been a little vexed at his stalling, but it would be all right. The forms would be a chore, but he wouldn't mind once they sat down and actually started working. Why would he? He had been just as excited as she had when she'd brought up the subject. He'd been just as pleased when Timothy had told them his thoughts. Silently, she scolded herself for snapping at him. Of course this wouldn't be a problem. She would fix dinner, they would have their meal, and then the two of them—she and Patrick—would work on the forms. Together.

She cast a look back at the table and the forms that waited in their appointed place. It was time to get working on serving dinner, so they would have to wait. She glanced out the window at the darkening sky outside. The days were getting shorter as the seasons rolled on, and soon it would be night. She flipped the switch to turn on the lights and got to work, checking tonight's casserole to see if it was done, and then setting it to cool on the counter, then retrieving the serving utensils from the drawers. As occupied as she was, however, the images were still in her mind. That face—that small, smiling infant face—that she'd pictured so clearly but had forced herself to forget, had now returned with more clarity than ever. Somehow, soon, she hoped she would see that face in person, and return that smile with a warm, wide grin of her own.

The face in her mind was quickly replaced by the real face of her husband, as she looked up and saw him still standing there by the window, his cigarette held absently in his hand, watching her as she worked. He gave her that small, somewhat weary crooked smile and she had to smile back. He nodded and smiled a little wider before turning to gaze again out the window, as the sun continued to set and the sky grew ever darker.

After a few moments, Shelagh dropped her gaze and returned to work. Soon they'd all be seated at the table together—their small but happy family, soon to be joined by one more. In her mind's eye, all she could see was hope.


	18. Chapter 18--Despair

**_This chapter takes place during CtM episode 3x07, covering the scene from my Week 18 "Turnadette Tuesday" Tumblr post and more. It is dark, but then so was that episode for the Turners._**

It was still light outside, but the flat had never seemed so dark. Patrick stood in the hallway, with his back to one wall, watching as the shadows on the wall opposite him only grew darker. He could hear his wife's footsteps in the next room, but they weren't getting closer. Maybe she was heading into the kitchen, or perhaps would take a seat in the living room. Either way, he was alone and she wouldn't be joining him soon.

He was glad, he had to admit. As heavy as this guilt had weighed upon him, this separation now only brought relief, even though he knew it wouldn't last.

It had been foolish to hide this from her. He knew that, and all the trouble that came from this sudden revelation was solely his fault. At this moment, though, he hardly cared. He couldn't allow himself to care. He had let her get her hopes up, entertain this fantastical dream of adoption. He'd ignored the nagging fears that arose whenever he saw the papers, and the questions about his military service. He'd tried to ignore the images those questions had called up in his mind. He'd been so careful to keep it all back, but now it was threatening to flood back into his mind. No matter what, he couldn't let that happen.

Why did she have to stir this up? She'd never asked about his war record, and he'd never volunteered to tell her. Of course she'd known he had served. Most men his age had been to war, but he had been content to leave it at that. Marianne had never pressed him about his war experience, even considering how they had met. He and his first wife had never spoken of their individual sorrows despite the limited knowledge they had shared. And now there was Shelagh, who hadn't met him until three years after the war. There was no reason to bring any of these old wounds up with her. Why did she even need to ask? Why couldn't she just let it be, like Marianne had?

Of course he knew that wasn't fair. He'd told himself he would never do that—compare Shelagh to Marianne in that way. Shelagh was not the same, and he hadn't wanted her to be. As quiet and reserved as she could sometimes seem, his new wife had a stubborn side with which he was quickly becoming more acquainted. Marianne had been more content to let issues slide, but that wouldn't do for Shelagh. She wanted answers.

Of course she did. Who wouldn't want answers when one of their greatest dreams in life had just been shattered into fragments? His mind told him she deserved to know the truth, but only if things could be that simple. He couldn't. Try as he might, he couldn't tell her any more than had already been revealed, and so now he stood here against this wall, and she was yards away in the next room. It was only a short distance, but it may as well have been miles.

Fumbling in his pocket for his lighter and case, he took out a cigarette and lit it, holding it almost absently in his hand as he stood there. The previous week replayed in his head, and the images of horror from years ago were now replaced with brighter ones from the much more recent past. His lovely wife's smiling face, and the hope in her eyes. He'd seen that hope dashed just a few weeks before, and to see it return had been such a delight. He'd have done anything for her, to bring back that look. Anything to make this woman happy. Or so he had thought.

And now the secret was out, what was he to do? He couldn't face Shelagh, at least not now, so here he was skulking in the hallway with his cigarette. The look on Mrs. Litchcroft's face had spoken much. There was little hope now of a child. What would Shelagh even think of him now? Would she blame him? Would she resent him?

He didn't know her, she had said. If he was going to let this secret stand between them, he didn't know her. They were words spoken in anger, in frustration. That steely stubbornness that he had seen previously on a few occasions was there in full force. And the brutality of that statement was that she was right. He didn't know her, or he hadn't. As much as he had learned about her since their marriage, the fact was that they had been near strangers when they had married.

Maybe they should have waited. Maybe it was cruel for him to subject her to this life—with a broken man who had deceived her. She wouldn't leave him, he knew that. As stubborn and fiercely loyal as she was—and considering all she had given up to be with him. Nor would he leave her. As distant as he felt now, that idea was unthinkable.

He didn't regret marrying her. What else could a man do when struck by a love such as that? He loved her, and he knew she loved him, but he hadn't allowed her to know him. Not really. All those eager newlywed conversations early in their marriage had faded into the drudgery of the days, along with the escalating fear that she would find out something so far buried in the past, he couldn't even bring himself to think about it, let alone share it with his wife.

And so here he was, in the dark, smoking his cigarette and watching the shadows grow larger as the day wore on. There was silence in the house, but not in his mind. He had told her to put her own problems behind her, as he had done so resolutely with the ghosts of his own past. Perhaps that wasn't the best way, but it was what he knew. It was what had worked. He couldn't be a doctor, see to all his patients' needs and concerns, if he was too occupied with his own problems. No. He had resolved to move forward, try his best to remain cheerful. To look on the bright side.

But where was the bright side now?

There was no answer to that question, or none he could think of now. He had let her down. His beloved wife who had been through so much, and now he was to blame for crushing her dreams. A memory he thought he had pushed away had resurfaced with brutal force, and even if she was right, he couldn't talk about it. He had vowed to share his life with her, but he couldn't share this. What would she say if he did? What would she even think?

That was enough for now. He couldn't stand here and ruminate. He had come to the end of his cigarette. A smoking stub was all that was left, and so he snuffed it out, just as he was determined to shut out these thoughts. It was no use standing here. He had to get out, if only for a few minutes. Just for a walk. Some fresh air to clear his head, and then he could come back, face the rest of the day. If she would ask him again, he didn't know, but he wouldn't think about that now. He would go out for a while, come back and have dinner, and go about the day. He would do his best to be cheerful, to push these thoughts back where he had kept them so tightly locked away. They couldn't be allowed to surface again. If they did, he didn't know if he could take it.

Slowly, as silently as possible, he crept into the entryway. Casting a quick sidelong glance toward the living room, he noticed it was empty, and nearly dark now since no lights had been turned on. Shelagh was nowhere to be seen. The memory of her stricken face as she stood by the fireplace was almost too much for him to bear, so he pushed it aside. Where was she now, he wondered. The kitchen, perhaps. It was nearly time for dinner. Or perhaps she had fled the house as he was about to? No. He would have heard if she'd left.

He would be back. If she was in the kitchen, perhaps she'd be so caught up in the tasks of cooking that she'd not even notice he'd left until he came home. It would only be a few minutes. A stroll to the end of the street and back—a few minutes to clear his head, and then he'd be back. He had no idea what he'd say to her when he saw her again, and if he could even face that look of disappointment again. What would he do if she started asking questions again?

There he was ruminating again—bringing up what if's that he didn't have the energy for, or the time. It wasn't time to think right now. It was time to move. Questions and worries could be dealt with another day, but for now he had to stop thinking and walk. Casting a quick glance into the other room again-still empty—he reached out toward the door, opened it, and walked out into the shadowy evening.

In the meantime, a lone figure sat hunched over the small table in the kitchen in the dim light, staring down at the tablecloth, her face in her hands. She hadn't heard him leave, as lost as she had been in her own thoughts, and recriminations, and disappointments. Her own fears. The sound of her sorrow had muffled the sound of the front door.


	19. Chapter 19--Happy Home

_**This story takes place during CtM episode 3x08, starting on the morning after the Turners' reconciliation, which was the subject of my Week 19 "Turnadette Tuesday" Tumblr post.**_

Beams of bright light streamed through the living room and kitchen windows, even extending into the usually shadowy entryway as Shelagh Turner closed the front door. She was still smiling broadly as she placed her hand on the door through which her husband and son had just left. It had been such a lovely morning, and Patrick had just kissed her goodbye—on the lips, not the cheek—in full view of Timothy. It was something he hadn't done since the early days of their marriage, and she couldn't help but blush when she had seen Timothy's reaction—the quick smile followed rapidly by the rolling of his eyes. There was no doubting his relief that his parents were happy again despite his obvious embarrassment at their display. And Shelagh was relieved as well, more than she could have said.

What great changes can happen in so short a time, she thought as she turned and headed toward the kitchen, stopping for a moment to gaze out the window at the bright sunlight engulfing the space. Just this time yesterday she had wondered if Patrick would ever talk to her again, or at least to say anything of substance. She had endured enough days of his formality and distance and basic politeness, rebuffing all her efforts to reach out and somehow heal the rift that had formed between them. It was a rift to which, when she was most honest with herself, she knew she had contributed. Her rash words of that fateful afternoon still haunted her. She had spoken in haste, in anger, and in pain. To think that he had held such an important secret from her was almost too much to believe. He didn't know her if he thought he was going to let this stand between them, she had told him, but how well did she really know him?

She had spent days, weeks thinking about that question—replaying their entire relationship in her mind. Of course their courtship had been unusual. There was no denying that, but those first few months had been joyful all the same. The freedom to look, to touch, to hope and dream, and to speak after so many months of trying to deny their feelings—it had been a marvelous blessing. The first weeks of marriage could only have been described as bliss, but when she had thought of it later, she realized that although they had engaged in many a happy, hopeful conversation, they hadn't shared much of substance beyond basic details. The implication had been that they would learn to know each other as they lived together.

She had never deliberately hidden anything from him, and until recently she hadn't thought he had done so from her. They simply hadn't had time to speak too much of their pasts. And they had lives and chores and tasks, and disappointments, and finally the hope of a possible adoption to occupy their thoughts. She had always assumed that they would talk more when there was time.

Pulled back into the present by a beam of light from the window, Shelagh looked around their empty flat, now brightly lit by the morning sun. She had errands to run and chores to do this day, starting with clearing the dishes from breakfast, but so much had happened in one day that, despite her present joy, she found herself slightly overwhelmed. She sat down at the small dining table as a jumble of thoughts raced around in her mind. It was still difficult to reconcile the happiness of today with the confusion and despair of yesterday morning, although she was grateful that the time for talking had finally arrived.

Sitting at this very table only 24 hours before, her thoughts had been in an entirely different place, or many places all at once. Weary of asking why, knowing she had spoken in haste. The letter from the adoption agency, its crisply creased paper reflecting the light from the windows, was held loosely in her hands. She had reread it three or four times now, still in a state of disbelief that they had actually been accepted.

This was supposed to be good news, but she couldn't see it that way. Not now. As much as she had wanted a child—wished for one beyond description—she knew this was no life for a baby, to be brought up in a home with parents who couldn't even speak to each other. What kind of "happy home" would that be? Where was the truth and trust that Mrs. Litchcroft had mentioned?

Thinking back, the accusations piled up in her mind—not against Patrick, but against herself. She had seen his hesitation with the adoption forms, noticed his downcast countenance, the way he had dragged his feet through every step of the process. But she had never asked him why. All she could see after all those months of emptiness was the desired answer to the longing of her heart finally within her grasp. Now, after her husband had handed her the letter and walked out without another word, she had been left with even more emptiness. At a time in her life when she should have been thrilled beyond words, now there were only more questions with no answer in sight, and very little hope of finding one.

She had gone about her day as best she could. She couldn't allow herself to shut down, so she did what she knew—she worked. Every household chore she could find to do, she did—cleaning, laundry, changing the bed linens—but going through the flat in her usual meticulous way was a constant reminder of what had been missing for some time. Where she and Patrick had lived and had made a home, they now simply co-existed. As much as she had tried, they barely spoke now. They lived in the same flat, ate at the same table, slept in the same bed, but that was all.

She had tried her best to not push—to wait and hope he would speak, but Friday night had shown in a glaring public display that nothing was working. He should have known about the choir practice. She had done her best to disguise the pain she had felt when she had seen him, staring incredulously at her across the room as dozens of bystanders bore witness. This practice had hardly been a secret, as the choir had been meeting every Friday for months, and Patrick had known that. Later, in the darkness of their home, he had quickly muttered something about it slipping his mind, before he quietly headed off to bed. When she had followed a while later, he was already asleep, and nothing else was spoken.

That was how their days had been—this cold politeness, this living side-by-side but not together. It didn't escape Timothy's astute eye, either. Shelagh saw that, noticing how the boy rarely complained about household tasks anymore. Whenever she needed help, Tim was there without a gripe, even offering to help without being asked more often than not. As comforting as that had been, the person Shelagh needed most was her husband. Oh, how she missed him, longing for the happiness that had been.

And then finally, he was there. She had noticed the slight change in his manner when he had arrived home from his rounds that afternoon. She allowed herself to hope, just a fraction, before telling herself she must be imagining things and resuming her task of sewing. When the words were spoken at last, she looked into his eyes and saw, once again, that light that she had feared she would never see again.

The apologies made, they spoke. Putting aside her sewing, she gave Patrick her full attention and at last the words had come. She'd told him he didn't have to tell her everything, that her ultimatum had been rash, but still he spoke. She joined him on the sofa and he told her what he could, and for her it was simply being there with him that mattered most, leaning against his shoulder with his arm around her, holding her close as she snuggled into him and simply listened. It wasn't a long story, and Shelagh knew there was more, but she would give him the time. That they were talking was the most important thing of all.

Then, after a brief silence of just being together, the talking began anew. They spoke for what seemed at once like ages and no time at all, of weighty matters as well as lighter ones, catching up on moments they had missed in their days of near silence. The conversation had punctuated their everyday tasks as Timothy came home from school and they had their dinner, but the boy showed again how keen an observer he was, making himself scarce after the meal to complete his homework in his room as his parents remained at the table, lost in conversation. After a time, they had retired to bed and shared a different kind of closeness they had both missed greatly, and then still later, wrapped in each other's arms, their conversation continued until they had both drifted to sleep.

So many things had been spoken—of the past certainly, but now also of the present, and the future. It was wonderful to be speaking again, but Shelagh knew it was only a start. And in the morning, how lovely it had been to awake to that familiar arm draped around her waist, which then tightened around her and pulled her in closer as her husband stirred from his slumber. There was that exhilarating sensation of being cradled in his embrace, and lingering in bed enjoying the warmth of his nearness. His not jumping out of bed to hurry up getting dressed and off to work was a welcome change, and for just a few moments, the time was theirs alone to cherish, to enjoy. Oh, how she had missed that feeling.

Although their breakfast conversation was simple, they shared glances and looks that made Timothy uncomfortable. It was all lovely and sweet and feeling so new, as if they had just married all over again. There was talk of the adoption letter, and the baby, but neither knew when any further news would arrive. All they could do was wait and hope. Best of all was the assurance that now, whenever a child would come into their lives, that happy home would be real at last.

Looking at her wristwatch, Shelagh stood up. There would be plenty of time to think, and plan, later. Plenty of time to speak, and dream, when Patrick would arrive home later that day. For the first time in too long, she didn't dread the day. There were tasks to be done, of course, but the real joy would be when her boys were home. As the light shone through the front window of their small, tidy flat, Shelagh knew that hope had returned, and she was glad.


	20. Chapter 20--Mother and Daughter

_**This chapter takes place during the CtM 2014 Christmas special, on the night after the writing of the letter shown in that episode, and including the moment I discussed in my Week 20 "Turnadette Tuesday" Tumblr post. **_

Shelagh wondered if she'd ever get tired of staring at her daughter. Not that she had much time to just look at her, with the late night feedings, nappy changes, and everything else that came with caring for a newborn, but she tried to take the time to just enjoy the moments. This delightful little bundle that she had waited for for such a long time was finally here, and Shelagh still couldn't believe her joy. Married to the love of her life, and with a wonderful son that she loved as her own, and now this precious new gift. They had named her Angela. Angela Julienne Turner, to be more precise, and she was the light of their lives.

Shelagh didn't begrudge the work, or the long hours or lost sleep. She had known what was required in taking care of a baby, and the joy far outweighed the stress. After all that she and Patrick had endured in their first year of marriage, this was again a time for bliss.

Here in the dim light of her bedroom, she stood by the cot just beyond the foot of the bed, staring down at the sleeping girl, listening to her steady breathing. Shelagh had only put her down a few minutes ago after her latest feeding. The girl had gone right to sleep, but her mother couldn't bring herself to go back to bed just yet. Patrick lay in the bed, still sleeping, his arm stretched out on the empty mattress toward the place where Shelagh normally would have been. So peaceful now they both seemed, when just hours ago Angela was squalling and Patrick was doing his best to calm her. He helped out as best he could, when he was able to be home and not called out at odd hours. She had the luxury of being able to sleep in if needed, so most of the time she handled the night feedings.

Such a sweet little girl, Shelagh thought as she gazed into the cot. Angela was a surprisingly good natured baby, all things considered. Remembering back to the days—weeks ago now—just after they had brought her home, Shelagh thought of all the little "firsts". Her first feeding, her first toys. Her delighted big brother's first time holding her, and all the funny faces he'd make trying to get her to smile. They'd told him that babies don't truly smile for a few weeks, but that hadn't stopped the boy from trying. And then, at last, there had been that first smile, when Timothy had been holding her on the couch as Shelagh prepared a bottle. All that effort had paid off at last, and Angela had smiled for her brother. And standing there in the kitchen watching them through the hatch, Shelagh had smiled too.

There had been so many wonderful days, and even the shorter days and cold weather had not dampened the joy. Christmas was coming, and the preparations for the holiday had added a festive atmosphere to all the little chores of the day. Now, when Patrick would sit in the chair with his daughter or Timothy would be playing with her on the floor, there would be talk of Father Christmas, and what he would bring for dear little Angela, who had been such a gift for their family.

Shelagh enjoyed walking about in the neighborhood with her daughter in the pram, and all the admiring looks the baby would receive from passersby. There were shopping errands, of course, and also clinic days. Although she had only recently managed to find time to check in at the surgery and help get some files in order, it had seemed strange not to be working at the clinics for the meantime. Angela needed her, but Angela also gave her reason to be there, as a mother this time. And how all the nurses doted on her, and how Patrick's eyes lit up to see his wife and daughter arrive. It was a blessing almost too much to be believed. As she had told Cynthia Miller, she felt like the luckiest woman alive.

Shelagh was brought out of her musings as Angela made a faint noise in her sleep. A gurgle, a hiccup, and then a sigh and more even breathing again. It wasn't time to wake up, apparently, and Shelagh smiled as she watched her sweet little daughter in peaceful slumber. What a relief to think now of this growing, happy little girl who had made their happy family all the happier. After all those years as a midwife delivering other people's babies, and those months of uncertainty and near despair, now she had a daughter. What a comfort it was to think that she wouldn't have to give this child back.

And then came the unbidden thought again—she could keep Angela, raise her and care for her, but there had been someone who couldn't. She'd never seen this girl, didn't know her name. But still, she couldn't help but think of her in moments like this. Just like those young girls she'd seen at the clinic a few days ago—the ones Chummy was taking to the mother and baby home. Such young girls they were, barely old enough to be mothers. Angela's mother had been like this, just 16. The adoption society hadn't told them much else about her, except that her parents had decided at the last minute not to let her take the child home. How devastating that must have been. How had she borne it?

They all thought about it, she knew now. Just a few hours earlier, on the very bed in which Patrick now slept, they'd spoken of it. He'd been unsettled by what he'd seen at the home, and so had Timothy. They'd had so much happiness with this sweet little girl, but what of the girl who'd given her up? She and Patrick had talked of it, lying there with Angela lying contentedly between them, cocooned in the warmth of her parents' embrace. This was a safe place, and Angela would grow up with all the love her new parents and brother could give her. Still, they mustn't forget the girl who had given them so much. She must be thinking about her child, missing her. She must wonder if the child would be raised in a good home, a loving home.

And so they'd decided to write a letter. Timothy had agreed enthusiastically, and Shelagh wrote it out. They couldn't be sure the girl would ever read it, but it had to be done. They had to try, as Tim had said. And so it was a simple letter, telling of Angela's life with her new family, and what she was like. It closed with a sincere expression of gratitude and wishes for the well-being of a young woman they may never meet, but who was of profound importance. Later that night, after Patrick had drifted to sleep, Shelagh had lain awake and offered a prayer for Angela's first mother. She'd done that before, and she imagined she would again. She hoped that whoever and wherever this girl was, she would find happiness. As Patrick had said earlier, how could they ever forget where Angela had come from? She was sure they never would.

Angela was still sleeping soundly, but now Shelagh heard another noise—more of a grunt, as Patrick rolled over in bed. Shelagh looked over at him, but his eyes didn't open. She'd made a point of putting her glasses on when she'd gotten out of bed this night. She needed to see what she was doing. She also didn't want to miss a detail of her daughter's dear face, and so now she could watch her husband's as well. He could usually wake up at a moment's notice when the phone rang for a late night call, but unless the phone rang or Angela started crying, he could sleep soundly. She was glad to watch both of them sleep—her beloved husband and her precious daughter. What a blessing it was to have them, along with Timothy who slept in his room just down the hall.

Once upon a time, Shelagh hadn't thought she'd ever have a family—not like this, anyway. Husband and children had been out of bounds for her while she had worn the habit. The sisters had been her only family for ten years. Now, she had Patrick, Timothy, and Angela, but she still had the sisters as well. In just a short time they'd all be gathered at Nonnatus for Christmas dinner—the sisters and nurses taking turns cooing over Angela as they all sat down together to share a bountiful meal and celebrate the One from whom all blessings had come.

With one last glance at her slumbering daughter, Shelagh turned and headed back towards the bed, where she would snuggle up close to her husband and try to get some much needed rest. She had spent all that time wondering before, not knowing who or where she needed to be, but now, Shelagh Turner was where she belonged. No, she would never forget where Angela had come from, but she would also always remember the blessing.


	21. Chapter 21--Listening and Learning

_**This chapter takes place during CtM 4x01, on the day after the bedroom scene I discussed in my week 21 "Turnadette Tuesday" Tumblr post. It contains one line of dialogue from the episode. **_

Patrick Turner sat alone in his office, shuffling through a small stack of files on his desk. Each neatly arranged folder represented a patient to be seen. There weren't a lot of them today, but there were enough. It didn't promise to be a particularly busy day, but that could always change. It often did. At the moment, the surgery wasn't officially open yet, so he had a few more minutes to prepare, and to think.

This office was so much bigger and brighter than his old one. Looking around, he thought back to the days when he worked in a windowless, dreary space. Even after a year in this newer one, he readily noticed the difference, and that was not only because of the windows. Glancing around the room, he noticed again all the knickknacks and signs of life that made this place less institutional and more like home. The flowers in their vase on the mantel behind his desk. The small, watercolor cards leaning there to catch his eye. Even the patient files he glanced over now, neatly arranged. Notes added in his wife's clear, unmistakable handwriting. Everywhere he could look, there were reminders of Shelagh. Even when he was alone, her presence was evident.

And soon, he wouldn't be alone here. They had settled that matter the previous night. She would be here in a few hours to assist where needed, but soon her presence would be more constant. A few days to sort out arrangements for their daughter, and then his wife would be here every day.

He could see Shelagh's face as she lay there in bed last night, propped up against some pillows on his side of the bed, a clear question reflected in her blue eyes. She'd arrived home late after hours at the cleansing station, exhausted and needing rest. She'd wanted to read for a while, to clear her head, but her bedside lamp wasn't working. He'd told her not to worry—they could get a new lightbulb in the morning. She could use his side of the bed. And so she had, and he'd gone to close up the house and make her a cup of tea—as she had done for him after many a late night call-only to return and find her dozing, having abandoned her reading, with her glasses on the table beside her. The cares of the day had overtaken her, it seemed. He couldn't tell at first if she had drifted to sleep, but when he walked around the bed with the cup, she had noticed him and sat up. He could tell there was something on her mind. He knew if he'd give her his full attention, she would tell him.

"You can tell me anything, and I hope you always will." He had said those words to her, and he meant them. And she had told him.

He wasn't surprised. In fact, he'd been expecting this, hoping for it. He'd proposed the same idea a year ago, barely a month into their marriage. That hadn't been the right time, he saw now. Shelagh had been so full of dreams, ideals then. Dreams of things she had been denied for years—a home of her own, a husband and children. And things had been different then. Tim had still been recovering from polio. Shelagh had been content to help out on clinic days and offer occasional office help, but her energies had been concentrated at home. Perhaps there was also a sense of wanting to distance herself from her previous life, but she hadn't said that in so many words. At least not at first. It wasn't until much later, when they had truly started talking, that he knew more.

And that was before their disappointment as well, the fateful diagnosis, the disastrous adoption interview. The weeks of distance, of coldness. It was a distance that he still blamed on himself, despite his kind, lovely wife's assurances that she didn't blame him. She was being generous, he knew, but that was just like his Shelagh, and he wasn't going to complain.

All those troubles were in the past now, and now so much was different. They were talking, listening, getting to know each other on levels they hadn't imagined before. They had a sweet new daughter now, as well—the answer to Shelagh's many prayers and the delight of the whole family. So much was different, and so much was settled. He smiled to think of the air of sheer contentment that now characterized his wife's manner much of the time.

Still, she wasn't content to leave things as they were. As joyful as the last few months had been, stagnancy wasn't going to satisfy his wife, either. She had been reminded of that the previous day, as she had been called in to assist in the arduous but essential task of caring for the Teeman children. He still shuddered to think of how horribly neglected they had been. And the youngest—Coral, such a tiny baby and in so much need. She was at the London now, being given the care and treatment she so desperately needed. He would call to check on her progress later, and he hoped to hear that she was responding to the treatments. Just to think of how a mother could neglect her own children so had been distressing. And Shelagh hadn't hesitated in helping. She needed to help. That was who she was, and as weary as it had made her, she had told him of her wish to do more.

Angela still needed her, but Angela was older now, more portable. They could find someone to look after her more regularly during surgery hours. That's what they had spoken of last night, and again at the breakfast table this morning. As complicated as the arrangements may be, the more they spoke of it, the more it seemed like the right thing to do. And Timothy had been surprisingly supportive. In fact, it was he who had pointed out that things wouldn't be that different than what was already happening.

"You're already there all the time anyway, Mum," the boy had told her. "Even with Angela, you can't keep yourself away from the office."

Patrick thought back now to Christmastime, and Timothy's account of how Shelagh had sprung to the aid of their patient Victor McKenty when he had been a stranger to her. She had been in total control, Tim had said, never missing a beat and taking care of the situation as a true professional. Of course she had. That was just who Shelagh was. All those years of working with her when she was still Sister Bernadette had told Patrick that, as had the past year of living with her and seeing her every day. She ran the home as meticulously as she ran the surgery, conducting every task with intelligence, efficiency and supreme competence. Patrick laughed in spite of himself thinking about how accomplished his wife was in all she managed to take on. In fact, she was so proficient that he imagined it might be intimidating to some if she wasn't so disarmingly kind and humble.

Such a contradiction, his wife was sometimes. So unassuming, and yet so quietly confident at the same time. So organized, efficient and orderly, and also so profoundly compassionate. She wasn't flawless—nobody was, but he had to constantly remind himself that his wife wasn't a saint or an angel. She was a woman, and she needed his support, trust, and confidence. It still pained him to think of how he'd distanced himself from her following the adoption interview, and how he'd held her at arm's length before that, in an emotional sense. He loved her beyond words, but he now realized that in a way, he'd been treating her with a sort of reverence that hadn't been helpful. An experienced doctor with a well-cultivated manner toward his patients, he'd taken great care to listen to them over the years—to make sure he has their best interests in mind, to make sure they feel safe talking to him. How damning it had been to admit he hadn't done that with his own wife. Now, however, that was all going to be different.

And it had been different. Since that day they'd received the acceptance letter from the adoption agency, Patrick had resolved to do his best to tear down his carefully constructed emotional walls and let his wife in, to talk but also to listen. He would trust her and assure her that she could trust him. He would let her know him, just as he was learning every day to know her more. And day after day she continued to surprise him, which was a wonderful thing.

Having arranged the files in a semblance of order, Patrick put them back on the desk and glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was time to open the surgery. Picking up his keys, he stood up, heading out the open office door and into the reception area on the way to open the front door. On the way, he passed his wife's desk. Neatly ordered, everything in place. The clutter that had been there in the weeks she'd needed to stay home with newborn Angela was now long gone, to be replaced by peace, and structure, and hope.

She was everywhere in this place. Even when she wasn't actually here, her presence was unmistakable. Patrick smiled, a wide grin filled with love and considerable pride. Soon she would be here every day, She may not be returning to nursing just yet. Perhaps she would when Angela was older, but for now it would be enough to have her here with him, each in their own way doing their part to make their patients' lives better. They would be working side by side, and that was as it should be.


	22. Chapter 22--Celebration of Love

_**This chapter takes place during and after Trixie and Tom's engagement party in CtM 4x02, covering the moments I discuss in my week 22 "Turnadette Tuesday" Tumblr post. I'm also changing my usual format a little just for this chapter. In fitting with this episode's basically showing us Turnadette through Sister Julienne's eyes, I'm writing this from Sister J's perspective.**_

It was a lovely afternoon at Nonnatus House, and the dining room was filled with the joyful sounds of celebration. Sister Julienne couldn't imagine a better day for such an occasion—a gathering of friends and colleagues to celebrate the engagement of one of their own, Nurse Franklin, to the kind, handsome young curate, Mr. Hereward. It was a relatively small group assembled around the table, but there was joy enough for a crowd.

As the guests of honor stood at the end of the table, cutting the brightly decorated cake and basking in the attention of their guests and one another, Sister Julienne observed the scene from her position at the other end of the long, simply but elegantly set table. To the sister, the couple's joy was a welcome comfort, as was the general upbeat mood of all assembled. All the nurses were here, and the sisters, and their dear friends the Turners. As the happy couple settled into their seats and the sounds of cheerful conversation filled the air, Sister Julienne noticed that her heart felt lighter than it had in weeks, and that was a good thing.

Whatever her own disappointments had been, it was a joy to celebrate with friends, surrounded by all of these people who were so important to Trixie, and to herself. Even their newest addition, the gruff Nurse Crane, was enjoying the occasion, chatting pleasantly with the ever-cheerful Sister Winifred as Sister Monica Joan, as usual, kept her eyes on the cake. Across the table from her, Nurse Mount and her close friend from her days at the London, Nurse Busby, engaged in happy conversation, their attentions now focused completely on one another. Something about that gaze struck Sister Julienne as familiar, but she couldn't place it, and her attentions wandered toward her own end of the table, where she sat between the new, earnest young Nurse Barbara Gilbert, and Nonnatus's dear friend and trusted ally in their mission to help the people of Poplar, Dr. Turner. As Nurse Gilbert gazed dreamily at the newly engaged couple, Dr. Turner enjoyed his own quiet, easy conversation with his wife, Shelagh, as the two enjoyed the cake and the company.

As much as this afternoon was about Trixie and Mr. Hereward, Sister Julienne couldn't help but smile as she observed the Turners, who in their simple bliss perhaps presented a picture of what was to be for the soon-to-be-married couple. The sister noticed the brightness in Shelagh's clear blue eyes and the warmth of her smile as she looked at her husband, who returned her looks with obvious fondness. This couple had been through so much in the past year, and to see them sitting here, so carefree and happy, was a true joy. It cheered Sister Julienne greatly to see this young woman, who was once her sister and protégée, thriving and smiling as a married woman.

Looking back at the guests of honor, who were currently trying to hold a conversation with a suddenly animated Sister Monica Joan, Sister Julienne wondered about their own story. Unlike the Turners—unlike herself in fact—these two had experienced a much more traditional courtship. Between these two there was no need for hiding, for recriminations, for conflicts between faith and feelings. Mr. Hereward had devoted his own life to God, but as a clergyman there had been no vows of chastity. He could freely court and marry. That had not been the case for herself, once upon a time in a past she'd tried to forget, or for Shelagh Turner, who until less than two years ago had been known as Sister Bernadette.

What was it like to be able to freely think and plan, she wondered? To have no war between callings, or nights of fervent anguished prayer over whether or not the right decision had been made—wondering whether she was following God's path or her own? Of all of Sister Julienne's closest friends and confidantes, only Shelagh Turner had fully understood that conflict, even though her ultimate decision had been the opposite of her own. Looking back at the Turners and seeing the obvious love and peace reflected on their faces, Sister Julienne had no doubts that Shelagh had made the right choice. Most of the time, the sister was sure she had as well, but still, there were doubts.

She wasn't like Mr. Hereward. A sister's life is different than a curate's, or a vicar's. Her calling was to serve God by devoting herself to her work, to caring for the people who most needed her care. She wasn't even like Shelagh Turner, who had fallen in love with a man whose own life's work had closely paralleled her own. For the young Louise that had been, the decision had been between a life of ease and comfort with a good man—and perhaps some degree of charity work—and this calling of devotion, prayer, and service. As competent, proficient, and compassionate as Sister Bernadette had been, ultimately she had seen that she had been meant to use her gifts elsewhere. That wasn't so obvious for Sister Julienne, and she knew it, even as the ghost of regret still haunted her heart. She knew she had followed God's call, just as surely as she knew Shelagh had as well. She and her dear friend were both where they belonged. Although the pain of loss still resonated within her, she had to be comforted by Shelagh's counsel from the previous week—the words of Julian of Norwich: "love was His meaning."

And love was the meaning for this very day, Sister Julienne thought again later, as she stood with the beaming Nurse Franklin along with the Turners as the party was starting to wind down. Mr. Hereward had been waylaid by Sister Monica Joan, engaged in an earnest conversation on some esoteric matter of theology, but Trixie was unperturbed. She could only gaze at her fiancé with love shining in her eyes as she spoke quietly with Sister Julienne, Dr. Turner, and Shelagh. She was so preoccupied that perhaps she forgot to think as she responded to Shelagh's kind words about the party.

"You two never had an engagement party, now that I think of it," she said. "Did you?"

Sister Julienne noticed the slight incline of Shelagh's head, and Dr. Turner's eyes as he placed his hand lightly on her shoulder. After a brief, uncomfortable pause and a calm but slightly muffled "no" from the former sister, Trixie's eyes widened. She'd obviously forgotten the awkwardness of that time, as had Sister Julienne, almost. To her credit, Trixie quickly recovered the situation.

"Oh, but your wedding was marvelous!" She smiled. "Absolutely lovely."

At this, the doctor smiled his broad grin. "Yes, it was. Absolutely," he said, looking directly into his wife's eyes. Shelagh smiled in return, and for a moment it was like they were the only two people there. Trixie grinned, and so did Sister julienne, and all was well.

At this, Tom joined them and the conversation turned to the usual matters, of well-wishes and wedding plans and happy returns. The party very soon wound down and the guests returned to their rooms, their work and, in the case of the Turners, their home.

Later, alone in her cell, Sister Julienne turned her mind once again to the exchange in the dining room. Thinking again, the surprising thing had not been the awkwardness of that one moment, but rather how quickly it had receded. Their early engagement had been an unusual time for the Turners. It was so happy for them to no longer have to hide their feelings, even from themselves. Still, there had been so many concerns about what others would think, especially from Shelagh. As unpleasant as it was to think of those weeks of estrangement from her former sister, the blessing of seeing them so content together now easily outweighed that brief, distant discomfort. There was no more hiding for them now, and they could weather the little reminders with grace and humor.

Sitting on her bed in the dim light of her room, clad only in her nightdress and simple white cap, the sister took notice of a worn old volume on her bookshelf, and the keepsakes it held within its pages. How strange to think how many years had passed since a young girl named Louise had given up her dreams with a good-hearted, blue eyed young man and embarked on a life of service and devotion. As much as the memories still pained her, she knew that she was where she belonged.

Marriage and family were not for everyone. Charles had been happy with his life, with Muriel and their children. Louise might have been happy in that life, but so much had come from the path she had followed, just as much had already come from Shelagh Turner's path. Sister Julienne hoped and prayed that Trixie and her Tom would have that kind of happiness. As blissful as those two seemed now, it was still early days for them. Still, the sister hoped the best for them. Only God knew where their path would take them, and she would leave it in His hands.


	23. Chapter 23--The Joys of Discovery

_**This chapter takes place during CtM episode 4x03, covering the image and moments I discussed in my Week 23 "Turnadette Tuesday" post on Tumblr. It contains part of a line of dialogue from episode 4x01. **_

Shelagh had almost forgotten how much she enjoyed playing medical detective. Well, "enjoy" might not be exactly the right word in this particular case. Dysentery was not a pleasant subject by any means, but finding the answers to a mystery and being able to help stop a potential crisis was, in its own way, particularly rewarding. Just a few weeks ago, she had told Patrick of "that sense of making things better—of putting things to rights." This endeavor was one small way of achieving that goal.

It had been a while since she had been called into action on a case like this, and it brought back memories of an earlier time, another life, another name. Sister Julienne would occasionally enlist her assistance with difficult cases and finding the answers to various issues that would arise. Shelagh had always been inquisitive as a child, and pursuing knowledge with the end goal of helping the sick was an important part of her calling then, and as she had recently discovered, it still was now. What the former Sister Bernadette never could have guessed, however, was how now, as a married woman, displaying her skills in this area could reap rewards of an entirely different nature.

Nobody had told her of this aspect of marriage while she was still a nun. Of course, she knew about romance from an abstract point of view, from books, and the cinema, and stories she'd overheard from the nurses. And she'd known about the physical act of marriage—which had turned out to be so much more enjoyable in practice than in the abstract-but this was something different. This was the joy of everyday interaction—of just being together, and learning something new every day. It was watching her husband's face when she saw that he had learned something new about her. The simple looks of admiration and wonder. That wasn't something she'd thought much of before, but she was finding it one of her greatest joys now. They'd been married for just over a year now, and there was still so much to learn. The real surprise lately had been how much this latest venture into medical investigation had taught her and her husband about one another, and this sweet, wonderful dynamic in their relationship.

It was time now to fold up the map. The case had been solved, phone calls made, quarantines arranged, and the outbreak was finally on the decline. Patrick had done his part fighting the bureaucracy with Nurse Crane, all the while checking in from time to time on Shelagh's efforts. He'd taken a particular interest in watching her progress, leaving it to her to do most of the detective work while he tended to patients and fought the battle on the front lines. Standing here at her desk in the surgery, she thought back to that day, as they both stood in their living room on a bright afternoon. He'd been pleased when she'd found the answer to the puzzle, and they'd discussed the case over tea—Shelagh revealing her conclusion and Patrick recounting Nurse Crane's latest tactics in their confrontation with Mr. Lancing concerning the living conditions at Bulthorpe.

"She sounds like quite the formidable ally," Shelagh had told her husband as they stood by the table, cups of tea in hand.

"She is." Patrick took a sip of tea, then smiled. "I don't think she's accustomed to losing arguments."

He set his cup of tea on the table. "Still," he said. "She's not quite as formidable as someone else I've worked with." He placed a hand on Shelagh's shoulder, and she tried to remember.

"Oh!" she finally replied. "Yes. County Hall. The X-Ray van." It was something of a bittersweet memory, but enough time had passed now for her to remember the victory more than the pain that followed. They'd discussed this time a little in the past few months, and had been able to smile about it now.

He stepped a little closer, turning to face her. "Of course, it's easier to concentrate in this case."

Here, he actually winked, and she instantly understood. Oh, how marvelous it was now not to have to hide their feelings as they had that day. She could clearly recall her feelings then—her zeal for the cause, certainly, but there was something else. A warmth, a tightening in her stomach when she looked at Dr. Turner, and the exhilaration upon looking into his eyes in triumph afterward in the hall, and how she'd quickly buried that feeling and fled from the sheer power of his gaze. Now, there was no need to flee, and she freely and warmly looked into her dear husband's eyes.

"I certainly hope so," she replied, returning his wink with a wry smile.

With that, her husband had gently taken her own cup of tea, placed it carefully on the table and pulled her into his arms. "Believe me," he told her. "You have nothing to worry about on that account, my love. Not from Nurse Crane or anyone else. You're the only Watson this Holmes needs."

Shelagh gazed up into his eyes and grinned, only to be surprised when he suddenly frowned.

"What?" She asked, sincerely puzzled.

He glanced back at the map for a split second before returning her gaze, his tone slightly more serious than before. "It's just that, sometimes I wonder who's Holmes and who's Watson. That's some impressive detective work you did there."

She shrugged off the compliment with a simple smile. As much as she appreciated her husband's admiration, she didn't see the need to revel in her own intellectual prowess. She looked down at the map.

"Watson was the doctor, I suppose", she added finally. "But I always saw you as Holmes."

"Why?"

She thought for a moment. Why, indeed? Not because he was a man, certainly, since Holmes and Watson were both men. She couldn't put it into words, she decided. It was all imaginary, anyway, but she simply was Watson, and he was Holmes in her eyes. Finally, she looked up at down at him, surveying his handsome form.

"You'd look better in the hat," she concluded. And with that, she added a wink of her own and they both laughed as he tightened his arms around her and gave her a broad, impish grin.

"Oh, I'm not so sure about that," he said before leaning down to kiss her.

He'd been unable to stay much longer that afternoon, unfortunately, although she did see him at the surgery later, and then they had walked home together later that evening. She was glad she had returned to work full-time and was able to see Patrick more often. As much as she loved being with him at the office, however, she treasured their moments at home. There, they were bound by nobody else's expectations. They had once been denied all privacy, and it wouldn't have been proper. Any time alone had been strictly for work, and had been increasingly awkward as their feelings had become more difficult to bury. Now, however, they had a home, and a place to enjoy moments that were only for them.

Now, here she stood at her desk, carefully folding the map and placing it in a file, along with the other important materials relating to the dysentery outbreak. Patrick was out on rounds and it wasn't a particularly busy day, so she had some time to devote to paperwork and simple projects like this. She would keep these papers on file for reference purposes mostly, but she had to admit there was a part of her that would remember the map for entirely different reasons.

She smiled to herself, thinking of Patrick's crooked little smile and that look of admiration that came across his face whenever he learned something new about her, like he had that day. It wasn't a look of shock, or disbelief, but rather wonder and pride.

"I shouldn't be surprised," he had told her. "I've married a remarkable woman."

She wasn't sure about "remarkable", but she was glad he thought so, and the fact that she could still surprise him, even a little bit, was gratifying. Later tonight, at home, she would make sure to show him even more just how surprising she could be.


	24. Chapter 24--Past, Present, Future

_**This chapter takes place during CtM episode 4x04. **_

It was a happy morning at the Turner house. There was no question of that. Shelagh still smiled to herself as she stood here, clearing up the kitchen and listening to Timothy playing with Angela in the sitting room. Patrick had just left for his morning rounds, and Shelagh needed to finish up a few chores around the house before she would head to the surgery later. Just thinking about how crazy the previous night had been compared to the relative solitude of this morning was strange. Still, everything was going well, even if Shelagh had a few new questions to think about now.

She never could have predicted what happened the previous night. It had been a quiet evening at the surgery until Patrick had been called out on an emergency delivery, and Shelagh was getting ready to go home for the night. Apparently, Mrs. Bowe's baby had other plans, and Sister Monica Joan had walked the distressed woman to the surgery in the rain.

As busy as last night had been, she hadn't had the chance to talk to Patrick about the delivery until this morning. He'd known about it, as he'd just returned from a call as she was getting ready to walk Sister Monica Joan back to Nonnatus. There had been just enough time to tell him the basic facts before the telephone rang and he was off again—an emergency with Mrs. Robbins. By the time Patrick had returned from that call, Shelagh was already asleep in bed. She had tried to wait up for him but exhaustion had taken its toll and before she knew it, it was morning and Angela was crying to be fed, so they'd started their day and shared stories over tea and chores after breakfast.

Shelagh didn't have time to consider what to do last night. She had to act, and she had done so. Although it had been over a year since she had delivered a baby, and she had been fighting nerves when Mrs. Bowe was first brought in, Shelagh's training and skill had taken over and before too long, little Monica Anne had entered the world. How wonderful that Mrs. Bowe had chosen to name the child after the Sister. It was an honor well-deserved, as far as Shelagh was concerned. As much as Mrs. Bowe had been grateful, Shelagh was equally so, for if not for her former sister, Shelagh wouldn't have been called into action, reminded of what had once been her calling—a task that she had to admit she missed.

She had said those words to Patrick a few months ago, and it was as true as ever now. She knew she couldn't go back now—she had too many responsibilities already—but standing here by herself, absently running a cloth over the already spotless counter, she couldn't deny that, at least a little, she missed her old job.

She would never be Sister Bernadette again. As much as she valued her former sisters still, she couldn't go back to that life. Still, she hadn't just been a sister—she'd been a nurse and a midwife, and highly respected in those fields. Her husband had told as much just this morning, and she knew he wasn't only saying that because she was his wife. She wouldn't necessarily say she was the most accomplished midwife at Nonnatus, especially against the likes of Sister Julienne and Sister Evangelina, but she knew Patrick wouldn't tell her that if he didn't believe it. She knew her husband well enough now to know that meaningless flattery wasn't his style.

A small burst of laughter drifted in from the sitting room just then—the light giggling of her infant daughter mixed with the slightly louder, lower-pitched laughter of her son. How lucky she was, she thought. Just a short time ago, they had all been standing here—Timothy holding Angela and educating her about their parents' "mushy stuff" while Shelagh stood there in her husband's arms, not embarrassed by her son's comments but delighting in them.

It didn't take much thought to acknowledge that these were the happiest days of her life. She had her family, and her work at the surgery managing the office. She was needed there, she knew. Poplar had its share of highly competent midwives, but for some reason there seemed to be a dearth of skilled medical secretaries. At least they had been unable to find an adequate replacement for her in the weeks following Angela's adoption—a fact that had frustrated Shelagh enough to draw her back to the surgery more than she had planned to be there, even before her current position was made official.

Still, once a nurse, always a nurse, she supposed. Her medical knowledge was an asset to her job, no matter what someone like Nurse Crane might say. Nurse Crane! Oh, how glad she had been for Patrick the other day at clinic, because if not for him she might not have been able to keep her professional composure. She thought Nurse Crane had known her background—as a nurse, at least, if not as a nun—but if she did, the gruff new nurse certainly didn't act that way. Shelagh couldn't let Nurse Crane bother her—she knew that, but that was easier said than done. How grateful she was that her most vocal ally was her own husband.

The laughter from the other room had faded now, as Shelagh wandered over to the kitchen table to pick up Patrick's discarded teacup. She'd washed all the dishes from breakfast and had for some reason managed to forget this cup. She glanced into the sitting room to see Timothy on the sofa with Angela starting to drift to sleep in his arms, her head nodding on his shoulder. Noticing her watching him, he offered a small smile, patting his almost-sleeping sister on the back and rocking her ever so gently. What a wonderful, proud big brother Tim had become. She smiled broadly as she took the teacup over to the sink.

Last night had given her much to think about, definitely, but she couldn't let it concern her too much. Turning on the tap and beginning to rinse the cup, she thought of Patrick and the words he'd said to her earlier that morning—"sometimes I think you're wasted as my receptionist." She couldn't think that way, and she had told him that. She had the children, as well. She couldn't leave them any more than she already was. But Timothy was getting bigger, and Angela wouldn't be a baby forever. Casting another glance through the hatch, she smiled. Maybe someday Shelagh would revisit this question, perhaps when Angela was in school. For now, though, she was resolved. Now wasn't the time, but someday perhaps it would be.


	25. Chapter 25--Morning

**_This story takes place during episode 4x05. It's part one of two, based on my two "Turnadette Tuesday" Tumblr posts about this episode. This one is Shelagh's POV. The next will be Patrick's._**

His face was cold. The stubble on his cheek bristled against her smoother skin as she pressed her face to his, as if trying to will a response. He didn't turn, or smile, or even move in any way. He was like a wax figure lying in the bed, his face set and his eyes focused away from her. She pulled her face away, getting ready to stand up, looking down at her husband's listless form, wishing with all her heart that he would respond, but no. She mustn't be late for surgery today, as she would be taking the lead in his place.

Reluctantly, she stood, casting a last glance at the man she loved before quietly stepping out into the hall, closing the door behind her. Leaning against the door, she buried her face in her hands for a moment, praying that Patrick would be well. She had done her best to sound cheerful for him, but inside she was anything but cheerful.

It had been a difficult couple of days, to put it mildly. She'd seen the warning signs, watched as he had trudged lifelessly through his daily routines, trying to maintain an air of cheerful efficiency, possibly convincing his patients but never for once fooling her. She'd let it go, as she had done so many times. He'd insisted he was fine, even the other morning when he had woken up in his day clothes after returning home all too late, slipping into bed and turning away from her when she awoke and acknowledged his presence. She'd let that go, too. It was late, and he was obviously in no mood to talk. She was glad he was home, at least. Perhaps they would talk about it in the morning, she'd told herself, but they hadn't. He'd woken, muttered a quick apology for staying out so late, and then had never mentioned it again. Still, despite his words, his eyes told her that he hadn't forgotten.

She would keep an eye on him, she'd told herself, and so she had. Trying to make sure he didn't overexert himself was a fruitless effort, unfortunately, and it wasn't too long before yesterday happened. She'd sprung to her feet as soon as Fred let her know something was wrong, but she still wasn't entirely prepared for the shaking, fidgeting, haunted shell of her husband that she saw hunched over the edge of the desk as she walked into his office. She made sure to shut the door behind her. He didn't need everyone to see him like this.

She looked up, taking her hands down and straightening her glasses, blinking in the dim light of the hallway. She couldn't dwell on yesterday. She couldn't keep thinking of the man who'd walked through the door last evening, stood slouched in the entryway, still protesting that he was fine. She wasn't denying anything, but there was no use in dwelling at this moment. It would only make her cry, and she couldn't do that right now. She couldn't break down. Patrick lay still in their bed on the other side of the door, but he didn't need to see her like this. She had to be strong for him, no matter how weak she might feel.

She chose to think of before, of who he was until just a few weeks ago. The man who looked at her with an unmistakable light in his eyes, who responded to her kisses and touches with more of his own. An image came to mind, of just a few months ago now, shortly after their first wedding anniversary.

She had awoken that morning to see her husband facing away from her. That wasn't particularly unusual—they normally slept facing one another, but sometimes he would roll over in his sleep. If she awoke first, as she most often did if there wasn't an emergency call, she would snuggle into his back until he would awake. Or sometimes, as she had on this particular morning, she would sit up and watch him, smiling when he stirred from his sleep and then leaning over to place a light kiss on his cheek. At this, he had sighed lightly, then turned to face her, a groggy smile on his face.

"Good morning, my love", he had told her, before returning her kiss with a more serious one of his own.

Shelagh straightened up, moving away from the wall. Why had she thought of that particular morning, she wondered? There were so many more days, so many looks, touches, conversations. It had been a long first year for them, but there was so much to celebrate—so much to be thankful for. She thought of the dear, strong, kind man she married—the brightness in his eyes, the sureness of his walk. His confidence, his humor, his compassion. She had hardly known this man when she married him, but they had come so far in a year. And now, there was an empty form of her husband lying in their bed, and all she could do was hope, and pray, that somehow he would return to her.

This wasn't like before, like last year. In the weeks after the adoption interview he had been formal, polite, distant to her, but not to anyone else. To the rest of Poplar, he had still been the same cheerful, wise Dr. Turner, but not at home where he was aloof, guarded, evasive. It pained her to think of those days, but now it was even worse, as she had seen her once confident husband crumble before her eyes just yesterday.

There, in that room, as Patrick sat shaking, she knew she couldn't let it go anymore. She had to take him home, go out into the waiting room and tell the patients the surgery was closing for the day, but they would open promptly the next morning. After everyone had gone, she returned to the office, gently took Patrick by the arm, and led him out of the surgery. He had tried to protest, but he eventually went along, and she had walked him home, never letting go of his arm as they walked. It wasn't a long distance—just outside and around two corners to the other side of the building—but that day it had seemed endless. Timothy had been home, thankfully, when they had arrived, and he helped her with Angela and with supper as Patrick sat in the armchair in the sitting room, staring vaguely and insisting he would be all right.

She knew he wasn't all right, and the look in his eyes frightened her. She knew what she feared, but she couldn't let that fear take over. The same specter that had haunted them last year at the adoption interview—was that what this was? They had spoken a few times of his post-war trauma, not in too much detail but enough to give her an idea of how devastating it had been for him. Oh, what she would give to never have him hurt like that again.

She'd spoken to Timothy briefly last night, and he'd agreed to stay here with Angela and Patrick while she worked at the surgery. It was too late to arrange anything else. Then, she'd made a short phone call to Nonnatus, giving Sister Julienne a basic account of what had happened and asking for some assistance. Her mentor had assured her that a nurse would be sent to help—Shelagh wouldn't have to be by herself. The dear sister had also promised to keep Patrick and their family in her prayers.

Shelagh had prayed too. She had done so last night, lying awake in bed staring at her husband's restless form, and she had done so this morning, thinking of all those brighter days and wishing with all her heart that those days would return. Just to see him turn towards her with a smile, as he had on that earlier Spring morning, would ease her mind. But he didn't, and he wouldn't. He had slept fitfully last night, tossing and turning, and then this morning he lay there still and dejected. And here she was standing in the hall, hoping that he would get the rest he needed and that his strength would return. Maybe he was just overworked after all, and a few days rest was all he needed and he'd be on his feet again, as good as new. She hoped with all her heart for that to be so, despite that nagging fear that wouldn't go away.

Looking at her wristwatch, she knew she couldn't stand here anymore. She had to open the surgery on time this morning, so she had to get moving. She'd checked on Timothy earlier—he'd taken it upon himself to prepare breakfast and feed Angela while his mother got ready for work. They should still be at the table now, Shelagh thought as she walked down the dark hallway into the sunlit sitting room. Angela was giggling as Timothy made faces at her. Noticing his mother standing and watching, he nodded at her and pointed for Angela's benefit.

"Mummy's off to work, Angela," he told the girl. She turned to look at Shelagh, who mustered a smile for her daughter. Timothy then helped the little girl move her arm up and down in something like a wave as she laughed and smiled at her mother. Shelagh couldn't help but smile wider at this, and at her wonderful son.

"I'll see you at lunchtime," she told them, waving at her daughter.

"Don't worry, Mum," said Tim. "We'll take care of Dad."

She nodded, grateful. Then, saying a simple goodbye and with the image of her husband's face still in her mind, she turned to the front door and opened it, walking out into to the warm summer air.


	26. Chapter 26--Three Mornings

_**This chapter takes place during CtM episode 4x05. It's based on three images from that episode—one of which I discussed in my Week 25 Turnadette Tuesday Tumblr post and wrote about in chapter 25, from Shelagh's perspective. The other two images are from my Week 26 posting, which focused on Patrick. Here's Patrick's POV of those three moments.**_

It's bright this morning, and warm. Not the most comfortable day to be in the office, with his long clinical coat adding to the stifling feeling. Still, she walks in the door and it's like a fresh breeze. She's brought him tea, as thoughtful as ever. His wife. How lucky he is to have her here every day. She looks at him with those eyes, and he needs to smile, take her hand, say "thank you". She's pleased, clearly, but there's also work to do. A message to convey, but even in the message is her clear concern. He's tired, she says. She's right, of course—she often is—but he can handle this. 40 extra patients. That's a big number, but it's only two weeks, and what would happen if he couldn't take them? He's needed, so he works. A doctor's work is never done, it seems. He can do this. He must.

And then as quickly as she arrived, she's gone, back out in to the reception area and taking his brief respite with her. She mentions something about a holiday, and he makes a promise he hopes he will be able to keep. A holiday with her sounds lovely, but today is full of responsibilities. She understands. She usually does. He never wants to let her down.

* * *

Her face is warm against his cheek. He closes his eyes, almost reflexively, when she kisses him, but he doesn't turn. He doesn't smile. He doesn't say another word. He lies there, motionless, staring at the wall. He knows she will notice, but he still does nothing. She pulls away, goes to the door, opens it. He waits a few minutes after he hears it close. Staring at the wall, then at the mirror that faces the bed. His face is drawn, his hair unkempt. He looks like he hasn't slept in weeks, and maybe he hasn't. Not slept well, anyway. After a few minutes, he rolls onto his back. She's gone and won't be back until lunchtime. Will he turn away again when she returns? He doesn't even know.

He knows he shouldn't be treating her this way. This isn't her fault. None of this is her fault. It's all his own. Some doctor, can't even diagnose a patient. An infant patient whose parents have done nothing to injure him, taken away because of the doctor's oversight. And his wife—his loyal wife who has done nothing but show concern for him—he pushes her away. He shouldn't, but he does. He can't face her. This woman who has given up so much for him—changed her whole life, given him hope and love. What can he say to her? What kind of life has he subjected her to? What kind of future, when all he can think of now is the past?

She knows about his past. He's told her more than he's told anyone else since he left that place, but still not everything. He can't even bring himself to think about everything. It belongs in the past, but what now? He shouldn't have broken down. It was just a routine office visit—an old friend he should have been able to help, but just a few words about the war and the fear was there. The dark specters that he didn't ever want to face again. And then she was there and he'd shrunken from her touch. Why? The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. Now, however, he feared that was inevitable.

Staring at the ceiling now, he lay there, still in his bed. Their bed, but he might as well have been alone, the way he had acted when she was there. Just last night, in the midst of a fitful sleep, he'd awoken and felt her hand on his back. The warmth of her touch that was usually welcomed, and he didn't move, or acknowledge it. As far as she knew, he was still asleep. He couldn't roll over. He couldn't say anything. All he could think, all he could imagine, was that he had let her down. And still, her words this morning—so gentle, so concerned. She doesn't blame him, but she should.

Now she's at the surgery, doing the job that he should be doing. He has no doubt of her ability. Her skill, her care, is never in question. But his own? All he can see before him is a shadow—a dark, shapeless form of something he can't even put a name to. Is it the nightmare of the past returned to haunt him again? What if it is? What of his patients if it is? What of his family. What of his brave, loyal wife? Especially her. What would she do when she realized exactly who she had married?

He can't think. He will shut this down. That's what he must do. He can only lie still on the mattress, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. His stares into the blankness, trying not to think. He closes his eyes and tries to surrender to sleep.

* * *

It's a bright summer day. The light floods in from all around him, from the windows of the Poplar Community Centre. The room is full of activity, full of life. The nurses bustle here and there, babies are laughing, and their mothers smile.

Two mothers catch his eye on this particular morning. One is his patient, Ameera Khatun. Her strength returned, free of diphtheria, she sits smiling at the infant in her arms, showing the child proudly to a smiling Nurse Gilbert. Her troubles have passed, and she holds the hope of the future in her arms. He is glad.

Even more so, he is glad to see two smiling faces at the intake table. The lovely, bright smiles of his beautiful wife and precious daughter. He watches as Shelagh plays with Angela, the weight of the previous week's troubles long gone from her clear blue eyes. His wife. His Shelagh. How had he ever doubted her? How could he have kept anything from this woman who had given him everything? Brave was too weak a word for what she had been.

She'd seen him at his worst. At the lowest he'd been since those dreaded months after the war, and she hadn't turned away. She'd stayed. And more than that, she'd worked, kept his surgery going until he could return. This woman—this beloved woman—who had given up her life's calling had clearly seen a new one with him. Together, and not just at home. His life's work had become her own, and he couldn't have been more proud to see her standing there, her uniform signifying the skilled, competent nurse that she was. And to hold her in his arms that eventful evening, knowing she knew exactly who he was and that she loved all of him—it was a blessing he couldn't put into words.

And now here she was with their sweet, curious little daughter, who took in the sights of busy clinic and only wanted to explore, discover the world around her. He stepped forward to greet Mrs. Khatun, glad to see her and her baby well, but the real joy was when Shelagh rose from her place by the table and joined him there, the outgoing, happy Angela in her arms. Patrick smiles. He can't believe how lucky he is. He watches his wife—his lovely, wonderful wife and all he can do is smile. After a time, she meets his gaze and returns his smile with one of her own—her love clearly reflected in her eyes.

It's an ordinary summer day at clinic, and a glorious one.


	27. Chapter 27--Distractions

_**This chapter takes place during CtM episode 4x06, covering the images I talked about in my Week 27 "Turnadette Tuesday" post on Tumblr.**_

With a hurried but polite "thank you," Shelagh Turner hung up the phone and hurried back into the sitting room. It seemed she was hurrying a lot these days, and especially this particular morning. She didn't mind it much, as she was never one to covet idleness. Still, the list of things to do was getting longer, and there were only so many hours in the day.

"Mrs. Gee?" Patrick asked as Shelagh emerged from the entryway. He was standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Timothy was engaged in a half-hearted attempt to feed an increasingly grumpy Angela.

Shelagh nodded, then looked at Timothy. "Could you stop in there and pick them up today?" He looked up and nodded as Angela pushed the spoon away yet again, then gave his mother a helpless look.

"Here," she said, reaching for the little cereal bowl. "I'll do that."

"Thanks," said Tim, genuinely relieved. "Let me just go and change."

And with that, he practically ran to his room, glancing back at his father once as he left. Patrick smiled slightly and nodded, lifting his shoulders slightly in what might have been a shrug, but Shelagh didn't have time to process that because Angela chose that precise moment to grab for the spoon in her hand, almost causing her to drop it.

She thought she heard her husband laughing as she juggled the spoon and finally managed to keep hold of it. She looked up to chide him, but was immediately disarmed by his broad grin. She sighed, trying to return her focus to Angela, who seemed more interested in the spoon than in her breakfast.

Why must he be so appealing on a morning like this? So much to do, and so much to think about, but there was her handsome husband, looking at her with those dark eyes and that irresistible smile, his white shirt accentuating his well-built frame. Her mind ever so briefly drifted back to earlier this morning, and the main reason why they were so rushed at the moment. It took a bit of mental effort to snap herself back to reality, as Angela had given up reaching for the spoon and now just sat staring at her father, who was still looking at them with amusement.

"Would you like me to do that?" Patrick asked, gesturing at the cereal bowl.

She looked down at the small bowl and noticed that it was, in fact, almost empty. She tipped it slightly and showed it to him.

"No," was her reply. "Looks like she's had enough, and there isn't time to make a fuss over a teaspoon of cereal."

He nodded, picking up a towel from the counter, draping it over his shoulder and walking over to join her. Then, leaning over and in one fluid motion, he extracted his daughter from the confinement of her high chair, lifting her in the air as she giggled. Shelagh had to smile again as she watched them.

"I will see you at the surgery, then, young lady", he told the delighted Angela, lowering her to rest on his hip.

Still smiling and without a word, Shelagh took the towel from Patrick's shoulder and began wiping the laughing Angela's face and looking up into her husband's. His smile softened a little as he held her gaze, and time stopped for just a moment. They had a schedule to keep this morning, but there was no need to be gloomy about it. In fact, life had been exceptionally good for their family as of late. As hectic as the surgery could be, it felt right for her to be back in a nursing capacity. Timothy was getting ready to start grammar school next week, and Shelagh's encouragements to Patrick to take more breaks and not overtax himself at work had been a noticeable success. Patrick had more energy than he'd shown in months, as evidenced in his work as well as at home and, well, this morning and quite a few other nights and mornings.

A small whine from Angela broke them out of their gaze. There's no better way to stop a child from giggling than to start trying to clean her face, apparently. Shelagh had to look down now at her squirmy daughter, finishing the job as best she could and reaching out so Patrick could hand the child over. Time would be getting away from them soon and he had his rounds to make.

"You go," she told him. "I've got her." She reached up then to place a hand lightly on his cheek, where the tissues covering his shaving cuts remained. "You get cleaned up and I'll see you at the surgery."

He grinned, handing Angela over but keeping a hold on Shelagh's arm for a moment. "Don't go anywhere yet," he told her. "I'll just be a few minutes."

She nodded and he stood there for another moment before turning to head back toward the bathroom, leaving Shelagh to give her full attentions to the still slightly squirmy little girl in her arms.

A few minutes later, Angela was settled down and in her playpen, happily distracted by a small stuffed doll as Shelagh finished clearing up the dishes from breakfast. She looked at the clock on the wall, noting the time and happy to see she still had a few minutes to finish up this task. She hated to leave the kitchen untidy if she could help it. The sun was shining through the windows as she stood at the counter, drying the last dish, going through the day's routine in her head and glancing around the room, trying to be sure that everything that needed to be done was done. Turning then toward the cupboard to put the dish away, she caught sight of her husband, leaning against the doorframe, watching her.

He was all ready now, face cleaned, jacket on and looking as appealing as ever. All he had to do now was pick up his bag in the entryway and head out the door for his rounds. As quickly as the time was getting on, though, he didn't seem eager to leave.

"You know, I could drive you. Save you a few minutes."

She put down the dish and walked over to him, reaching up to straighten his tie as his arms slipped around her waist. The offer was tempting, she had to admit, but with Angela, she knew it would probably take longer to get her in and out of the car than simply to walk her over in the pram. And it wouldn't be long before Patrick arrived at the surgery from his rounds, anyway.

"There's no need", she told him, smiling. "It's just around the corner and it's a nice day. Angela could use the fresh air."

He sighed, not dropping his gaze. "Well," he said, drawing her closer, "I only have two patients this morning, so it won't be long."

"Good," she said as he leaned down to give her a brief but not too-brief kiss, then reluctantly let her go.

It wasn't much longer before Shelagh was strolling briskly down the street, pushing a drowsy Angela in the pram on the short walk to the other side of the building and the surgery. There was a lot to do today and she was glad she was able to maintain the schedule, considering the distractions of the morning. Yes, it had been a hectic morning, but thinking about the nature of the distractions, she didn't think she would have it any other way.


	28. Chapter 28--Picture of a Family

**_This chapter takes place during CtM episode 4x07, covering the image I talked about in my Week 28 Turnadette Tuesday Tumblr post._**

It was a quiet afternoon in the Turners' small but cozy flat. This wasn't perhaps the most fashionable of flats, but it was immaculately maintained and well-loved by the family who lived there. The family, as busy as they often were, were all home at the same time for once with nobody hurrying to be someplace else. Considering the commotion of late with the fire and the busyness of the maternity home, Angela's constant activity and Timothy's school schedule, it was good to have a leisurely afternoon at home. It was a good day, and all of the Turners were happy.

Patrick stood at the mantel, setting the timer on the old camera as his family scrambled into place on the sofa. As discussions of family and children this afternoon had turned to the subject of photography, Patrick had the sudden idea to preserve this moment on film. He had a split second after setting the timer to gaze back at his happy little family as they settled into place, waiting for him to join them.

How lucky could a man get, Patrick thought. It had been somewhat of a difficult summer for him, but with the support of his beloved, brave wife and devoted children, he had come through a frightening scare. Now, with a busy surgery to run and his wife by his side at work and at home, they'd weathered a fire scare and a difficult mix-up. That had all been Shelagh, efficiently taking charge of the evacuation and helping the sisters to set things right with the devastated parents of the switched babies. She had led it all with her usual compassion and care, and his love and pride knew no bounds. As he saw her hurrying into place and settling their beautiful daughter on her lap, he couldn't help but grin as he took his own place beside his son, who had recently surprised him with the news that he wished to carry in Patrick's footsteps as a physician. Maintaining his wide, unabashedly enthusiastic grin, Patrick settled into place just in time.

Timothy, seated between his parents, was in a slightly more reflective mood, although still happy as he had watched his father arrange the camera on the mantel and his mother hoist Angela out of the playpen to join him on the sofa. It had been a strange few days for the boy. This camera was a gift—an old family camera earnestly searched for and then kindly bestowed on him by his father. Tim always wished he could make his dad proud. He knew his father loved him, but the boy couldn't help but wonder how what his dad would think if he'd known about the lie.

Was it a lie? Or was it just an omission? No, it was a lie. He'd told his father there was nothing on the film, and that wasn't true. What should he have said, he wondered? Should he have simply told his dad what was on the picture he had developed? The image of himself at two years old, accompanied by the smiling figures of his father and his mother—his original mother. The woman who had given birth to him, and the face he had tried so hard not to forget. He remembered her smile, and sometimes her voice, but that was fading now. He'd been not quite nine years old when she had died. He would never forget her, but he knew that his memories had faded, and would continue to fade, but he was determined to never forget. How glad he was to have another picture—one that he could keep to look at whenever he wanted, but that had brought problems as well.

He missed his mother, but there was also the matter of the woman who now sat beside him on the couch. Mum. He called her that freely and without protest. It had been his own idea, in fact. Still, this woman was technically his stepmother, but he didn't think of her that way. She had been there for him and his dad when they had been at their lowest point—lonely and grieving. She had brought happiness and order back into their lives. She had loved them, and she still did and always would.

She wouldn't take his first mother's place, and she hadn't wanted to. She'd told him as much. She knew the grief of losing a mother. She understood. Still, what would she have said if she had seen the picture? What would his dad have said?

It wasn't right. Tim knew that. He knew his dad would always remember, as well, but things were different now. They were happy. This woman—Mum—she was the one who would be there as he grew up. She couldn't love him any more if she'd given birth to him. She'd just said that minutes ago, and it had brought a smile to his face. No, she hadn't given birth to him, or to Angela for that matter. But she loved them both, and she would be there. He wouldn't forget his first mother, but he was so glad for his second Mum.

As his dad settled in beside him, he glanced toward Mum and caught Angela's eye as the girl settled onto her mother's lap. He would tell them, he decided. Sometime soon, he would get out the picture and show it to them. He did wonder what they would think, but still he had to show them. It was the right thing to do, and he would do it.

He smiled at his sister and pointed to the camera, trying to get her to look as she sat on the knee of her smiling mother.

Mother. There was a time when Shelagh didn't think she'd ever be a mother. A family—husband, children, this small but cherished flat—they'd been a long-lost dream once. A remnant of childhood hopes and wishes, sacrificed to the deeply felt convictions of a young woman who had devoted her life to service, made vows to God to eschew such comforts and dreams. She had thought that was what she had wanted. It had been for a time, but then that had changed, and she didn't know exactly when and how.

Her daughter sat squirming in her lap as she sat there beside her son. Her son—as much her own in heart as she could have imagined if she had been his birth mother. He would never forget Marianne, and she didn't want him to, any more than she wanted to forget her own mother. But just the same, she thought of him as her son, just as Angela was her daughter. This precious girl who now looked so adoringly at her brother, looking at the camera for a split second simply because he had pointed, but then turning back to look at him. And on the other side of Timothy, there was Patrick-that dear, beloved, smiling man that she loved with all her heart. Once she couldn't have imagined loving a man so deeply, but now she couldn't bring herself to imagine otherwise.

It was all so right. She had thought it was wrong, when she had been bound by vows. But she had been led on a new road. Where there once had been guilt and confusion, now there was only joy and freedom. And that was from God, she knew, and she had thanked Him every day.

She steadied Angela on her lap as they all smiled. "Say Cheese," said Patrick, and they did. The shutter clicked and the image was captured. All was well.

For the small girl perched on her mother's lap, there would be no concrete memory of this day. Today, it was all sensation—the light of the room, the joy of seeing Mummy's face as she—Angela-was lifted out of the playpen. The bright smiles on the faces of Daddy and Tim. They were all looking at something across the room—a small, dark box that Tim had been carrying around a lot. It must be his favorite toy, and now he wanted her to look at it too. He pointed, and she followed his hand and his eyes, but all there was to see was that box. She heard a "click" and then she wanted to see Tim again. He smiled at her like he always did. He was a lot more interesting than that little box on the shelf.

Years later, Angela would remember this day only because of this image. She hadn't even been a year old yet, but as far back as she could remember she had known her parents' love, and her brother's. This picture was her reminder. She'd asked her mother if she could keep it, and Mum had agreed. For Angela, those early months were summed up by this photograph—the smiling couple with their happy son and curious daughter. It was a good day, Tim had told her. A happy day. There had been more happy days after that, of course, and sad ones as well, but for Angela, this picture meant happiness and most of all, it meant love.

She would show it to her own children when she had them. This was her family—the Turner family in Poplar, in the autumn of 1960. Even if she couldn't remember the day, the feeling was there, and it was clear. So much had happened since. There was so much to think about, talk about, remember-but it had all begun with love.


	29. Chapter 29--Making Things Better

_**This chapter takes place during CtM episode 4x08. This will be my last "Glimpses" chapter for a while, probably until after series 5 airs. Thanks to everyone who has read this series! **_

Shelagh Turner walked at a leisurely pace across the smoothly tiled floor of the maternity home as the late afternoon sun shone through the windows, illuminating the beds that lined the walls in the bright, open room. There weren't many patients today, and there wasn't a rush as Shelagh headed back toward the reception area and her desk. She could still hear the assured footsteps of her husband as he headed back to his office. Their schedules had them separate again for a little while until the surgery closed for the day, and—barring any last-minute emergencies—the couple could walk home together.

No rush today was a relief. It had been so busy lately, and the last thing she wanted was for Patrick to be overworked the way he had been over the summer. He seemed to be handling the work load well enough, though. She just had to occasionally remind him to take breaks.

It wasn't a long walk back to her desk, but she found herself taking her time, looking around and taking in the space around her. The shadows cast by the light streaming through the windows gave the place a subdued atmosphere, although the tone this afternoon had been one of joy. To see the look of delight on Maureen Gadsby's face as she was reunited with her young son, and to watch the two walk out hand in hand, accompanied by a beaming Nurse Gilbert was a delight and a relief. They'd helped someone, and that's what this job was about.

Mauren's case had been puzzling, and extreme. Although Shelagh herself had initially dismissed Nurse Gilbert's concern, she soon learned to regret that when she'd actually met the patient. And then there was Maureen's face when she had spoken of her young son, and the ache in her voice, which had spoken to Shelagh as much as the words. Children could often be strong when they needed to be. Shelagh knew that and had said as much to Maureen, but what would she herself have done if she had been separated from Angela for such a long time? Something needed to be done, and so she had turned to Patrick and the drug was found. Distaval, it was called, and as far as Maureen was concerned it was a miracle.

The image of Patrick's wide smile lingered in Shelagh's mind as she walked. New medical innovations were happening every day, and the very idea of that encouraged them both. Helping people, making things better—that was his calling, and hers. What a blessing it was now to be living this calling together.

The maternity home wasn't a big place, and it wasn't ornate or fancy, but it was as comfortable as they could make it. Thinking back, Shelagh remembered when this place first opened. She was still Sister Bernadette then, but to hear Patrick—then just Dr. Turner to her—talking about it, she had shared his enthusiasm. The idea of a place where mothers could go for extra care that was more specialized than home but more personal than a hospital was exciting. It was a vision she could easily see, even when others like Sister Evangelina had remained skeptical for a time. Eventually, though, even Sister Evangelina had come around, and this place thrived. How strange to think now, how in those early days Sister Bernadette never would have guessed what was in store for her, and where she'd be in just a few years.

Three years, it had been. Before the maternity home, even. That's when this may have begun, now that she had thought of it. A shadowy hallway on a clear, cold morning at the old Nonnatus House. That day when an unsuspecting nun had first noticed the doctor's crooked little smile. That moment when she had decided to pray for him on her own, in addition to the weekly prayers of the sisters. She couldn't be sure that was when it started, but that was her clearest memory now that she looked back. When she thought about it, all that had happened since had led back to that morning, although she couldn't have known that then. What would she have done if she had?

Now she was being silly. There was no point to what ifs, really. The past couldn't be changed, and as painful as those months of realization and struggle had been, in hindsight she couldn't regret any of it because it had led her to this day. This is where she was now, as a nurse and midwife working alongside her husband, the doctor. This was where they belonged, and she was glad. As busy as they could be, they were together, living and working side by side. As much as she couldn't have predicted this a few years ago, she was grateful for where she was now, and she still thanked God daily in her prayers.

When she arrived at her desk, the reception area was empty, and the light of late afternoon was ever so slowly dimming as she took her seat. Glancing around the room, she took in the familiar sights—the large wooden filing cabinet with its neatly ordered drawers. The large, solid door. The archway that led to the maternity home and Patrick's office. Once upon a time she was sure this would only be an occasional job for her—checking in at the surgery to help when necessary and make sure things were running smoothly. Now, sitting here at her neatly ordered desk and clad in her light blue nurse's uniform, she couldn't imagine a different life. All had turned out as it should, as far as she could see. Of course there was no way of knowing what the future would hold, but she was comforted to know that she and Patrick, and their family, would be facing it together.

She took a quick look at the clock on the wall, noticing the hour. There wasn't much on the schedule this late in the day, but with this being a maternity home, that could easily change. Soon enough, Patrick would emerge from his office and they would close up the surgery and go home, to their small flat on the other side of the building, where they would spend the evening with their family.

Looking at the stack of files on her desk, she picked up the first folder. Tomorrow, it would be time to come back for another day, more work, and more patients. More people to help. In the meantime, however, it was time for paperwork. Looking at the file, she opened it and turned her attention toward the matter at hand.


	30. Chapter 30--Comfort and Joy

_**This chapter takes place during the 2015 Christmas special, covering the moment I discussed in my Week 30 "Turnadette Tuesday, Turner Timeline" post, and more.**_

It's quiet in the surgery. Outside, night has just now overtaken the day, and the moonlight casts a silvery light through the windows of Patrick Turner's office at the surgery. The building is empty save for himself, a few patients, and the two nurses, Franklin and Gilbert, who have just arrived for the night shift. And, of course, his wife. Shelagh. She's still here, briefing the nurses on the events of the day and, no doubt, visiting a little bit longer with Iris and Walter Willens and their brand new, completely unexpected baby, Joy.

He glances at the clock on the mantel. It's later than usual, but finally time to go home. Standing at the door, he removes his clinical coat, exchanging it for his overcoat which had been hanging on the coat rack behind the door. He'd actually managed to remember to hang it up today, instead of draping it hastily over his desk chair. Hopefully, he won't be seeing the white coat again until the morning. A good night's sleep would be welcome. It's been a chaotic day, and he can't deny that he's weary. But it's a good weariness. A good surprise has come today, and he's thankful for it.

He stands there, his coat in his hand, thinking. This whole afternoon had been unexpected. He hadn't expected to see Shelagh at the surgery so early. The rehearsals for the church's carol concert were today, and Shelagh was a big part of that event. The measles epidemic had forced her to change her plan, but she had come up with another one—an inspired plan, he thought, though today's surprise had put that out of their minds for the meanwhile.

Strange, he thought, how it seemed so unusual for her not to be here today. It seemed now, almost, that she was always here. Her presence was always a comfort. At home, they could speak at length of their days, of the exhaustion that had threatened to overtake him in light of this latest disease—always a physician's enemy. They could speak of her concerns for the carol concert and leading a performance on national television. Of her nerves, but also her determination to do this right, and to see that Poplar was represented well. There was also the case of her dear former sister, Monica Joan, that had weighed on her mind, and she could only hope and pray that the elderly nun would soon be found. They could speak of all these things and more at home—a welcome and needed support. At the surgery, they often used a different language-that silent language of work and caring that they had discovered before they had been able to speak openly of anything more.

They were fluent in that language now, after two years of marriage, even though Shelagh had only been working here as a nurse for a few months. Now, it was even simpler than before. It had become a routine, a way of working that was different than with any of the other nurses. Words were sometimes necessary, but often they weren't, as earlier today when Shelagh had brought Mrs. Willens in and few words had been needed between them to discover the shocking but delightful surprise.

It was a happy day, and a welcome happiness. After the weeks of measles cases—now thankfully getting fewer-and as Christmas was rapidly approaching, to be a witness to something like this was almost akin to a miracle. And to stand there with his wife and Sister Julienne just a little while later, beaming at the proud, bewildered new parents., was a blessing indeed.

Sister Julienne should be back at Nonnatus now. When the nurses had a arrived a while after the delivery, they had brought with them more good news—Sister Monica Joan had been found, and Sister Evangelina and Fred were bringing her home. Sister Julienne had hurried back shortly after, rushing to the aid of her beloved sister. Shelagh was visibly relieved. The nurses had been telling her the details as she had led them back toward the maternity home where Mrs. Willens, her husband, and baby Joy waited.

Standing here in his empty office, Patrick smiles. So much joy had followed so much worry. There had even been an encouraging call earlier from the London. Young Tina Lewis, who had been stricken with a particularly severe case of measles, was improving and would soon be discharged. There didn't appear to be any complications yet, so he could only be optimistic. It looked like Mrs. Lewis, so understandably anxious before, would get a much hoped-for Christmas present. For Patrick, it's a comfort to know a young patient will recover.

His smile widens as he hears the sharp, rhythmic click of footsteps approaching outside the door. His wife's measured steps and the sound of her heels on the linoleum are unmistakable. Shelagh is on her way, and that means it's time to go home.

He glances quickly at the clock once more, then opens the door, turns out the light. He takes the few steps into the reception area to meet his wife beside her meticulously ordered desk. She's already wearing her coat. He represses a small laugh as he watches her, quietly checking the files neatly arranged on the desktop. She hears, and looks up, that warm smile that he loves so well brightening her face. Her blue eyes sparkle in the lamp-lit room.

Without a word, he returns her smile and gestures toward the door. She nods and follows his lead. They head to the door, their destination and purpose the same. He opens the door and holds it, following her out as they walk out into the crisp night air, together.


	31. Author's Note

**Hey readers,**

**I'm just posting this little note to let you all know that this story has now been updated with some recently revealed information from the newest CtM companion book, _Doctor Turner's Casebook_ by Stephen McGann (who plays Dr. Patrick Turner). I've only made a few changes, but most notably I've changed Patrick's first wife's name to be in compliance with her name as given in the book. I've also changed one brief reference to Patrick's age (in chapter 14) because the book gives a birth year for him. The altered chapters (in case you want to avoid spoilers for the book) are 3, 4, 6, 9, 12, 14, 16, 18, and 28. **

**I plan on writing more chapters of this story after I've seen all of series 5. I also hope to update my other story "Windows and Revelations" soon as well.**

**Thanks so much for reading this story, and for your follows, favorites and reviews. I really appreciate them!**


	32. Chapter 31-Waiting For an Answer

_**This chapter takes place during CtM episode 5x01, in between the two moments I talked about in my two "Turner Timeline" posts about this episode for Turnadette Tuesdays. **_

It was quiet now. The side room was small, and the lights were dim in the early evening with the blinds drawn, even though it was still light outside. Shelagh sat still beside the small cot, listening. Shallow, even infant breaths. The blanket-wrapped bundle slept, her little face reflecting a peace that the watching nurse could not bring herself to feel. The child lay still, sleeping and breathing, no telling how much longer this would last.

There, swaddled in her yellow blanket, the child looked the same as all the newborns at the maternity home. Wrapped up tight and sleeping soundly. But the blankets hid her startling secret.

In all her years as a midwife, Shelagh had never seen a child like this. Here in the low light of evening after a day full of startling events, Shelagh had time to think, to reflect on the images of day, and of the sounds, and the feelings. Of Nurse Mount's face falling, of her halting expression upon first laying eyes on the child. Of the hint of distress as she requested Shelagh's help, passing the girl over as Patsy returned to deliver the afterbirth—the strange hint of relief in her actions as she turned to see to Mrs. Mullucks. Then, there was the child. This small, squinting bundle who seemed at first no different from the hundreds of newborns Shelagh had seen in her career. She'd done what she'd always done when a brand new child had struggled to breathe. She'd rubbed the baby's back, encouraging her to take those breaths, and then ther had been that unmistakable cry. A rush of relief, and then the feeling of losing her own breath as Shelagh opened the blanket, her eyes moving from the perfect face to the strange, unformed limbs. The pressure building in Shelagh's chest, the lump forming in her throat, the questions rising in her mind. _How? Why? What to do now?_

And so, upon another furtive exchange of glances with Patsy, Shelagh had made her decision. Oh, this poor child! What could be done for her? What would her mother say? Rhoda Mullucks, who was eagerly waiting to meet her little girl—she was a good woman. A kind woman, from all that Shelagh could tell. But what would she say when she saw the child? What was there to do? Shelagh's brain was a flurry, incomplete thought after unformed idea. The feelings took over, and she had uttered a hasty excuse and hurried from the room, child in her arms and no plan in mind except to spare Rhoda the anguish, if just for a few minutes.

Cradling the child, Shelagh had fled, only to be met with a familiar face. A welcome face. The face she most desperately needed to see at this most desperate of moments.

Even considering as many babies as she had delivered or helped deliver, Shelagh had never seen anything like this. There had been other children born with health issues and difficulties, such as the district's most recent case of a little boy born without thumbs. At the surgery and at Nonnatus, they had done all they could to help the children and their families, and some conditions could be treated or repaired. But this little girl was different. Never had Shelagh seen a child with a condition like this, so severe and yet still alive. What do you do for such a child? Had they even done the right thing so far?

And here she was now sleeping so soundly, without crying, with no indications that she was in any pain. Despite refusing the bottle Shelagh had offered several times now, the child seemed calm enough, even now sleeping so peacefully in the little cot here, as Shelagh kept a hand on her and watched.

What a lovely, sweet face this baby had. Such a beautiful little girl, just to look at her now. If only there was a way to help her. If only there was something they could do. So many guesses and second guesses, but no clear answers. If only they knew why. That's what Patrick was trying to do now, making phone calls, asking questions, trying to find what answers he could.

Patrick.

His face when she showed him the child told her he understood. Wordlessly, they brought her to the nursery, Patrick's face lined with concern as he unwrapped the child, examining her with deliberate care.

He was a caring man, a compassionate doctor. All the nurses could see that. Shelagh had seen that when she was still just one of the sisters, but now she could tell more than anyone else when he was unsettled. He didn't need to keep his guard up with her—his professional distance. Now that they worked together, they were able to keep that sense of caring professionalism in public, but here when nobody else was around, they could be a little more free. They didn't have to pretend, or maintain a good face. She wasn't sure if she would have been able to maintain her composure even with another of the nurses at this point, but with Patrick she didn't even try. He knew her, and she knew him. There was no point disguising their confusion, the pain and the shock that they felt. No need to hold back the tears, and so she hadn't.

She could tell just by his manner—his furrowed brow, his baffled tone of voice—that Patrick hadn't seen a case like this before either. She knew more of his history now after two years of marriage. Medical school, practice in Liverpool, then the war and his time at Northfield, and then Poplar. So much he had seen in all those years, but this was obviously something new. He was a doctor, a man of science. She could almost see the wheels turning in his head as he examined the tiny child. Had he ever even read of such a case, she found herself wondering now? If he hadn't, she knew he would do his best to find out what was wrong. He wasn't optimistic in this case—she could see that, as well. But he would try. That was the kind of doctor—the kind of man—Patrick was.

She could think of this now, wonder and ponder as she stared down into the sleeping face of the little girl in the cot, but she hadn't had much room for coherent thought earlier that day, she had to admit. She was glad for Patrick the doctor, but even more so at the moment for Patrick the husband. She'd needed his comforting arm on her shoulder, welcomed it as questions rushed around in her mind and the answers so nimbly eluded her. When rational thought gave way to tears, he had been there. And as distraught as she had been, she was grateful. Grateful that they didn't have to be just doctor and nurse in that moment.

It was so quiet here now. No sounds at all in this room except the child's breath and her own. Outside this room, the world continued on, but here there was Shelagh, and there was Baby Mullucks, and there was Patrick in the next room, and down the hall in the ward, there was a mother waiting, wondering, even more in the dark than Shelagh and Patrick were, wishing she could see her child. Wanting so much to hold her. What would they tell her, and when? Was it even right to keep her in the dark even now, while they waited for answers?

They hadn't had much time to discuss the particulars, as Patrick had his other patients to see, and then this phone call to make. There were still so many questions. So many issues to ponder. But Baby Mullucks wasn't an issue. She was a baby, and she was here, but for how much longer? How much would she have to suffer in her short life? If only things could be better for her, but how? Patrick would do his best, as he always did, as would Shelagh, But what was their best when they didn't know where to start?

All she could do now was sit, and wait.


End file.
